The Daughter Of
by Esmerelda01-is-Esme-Brett
Summary: 2011 Update! I know, I can hardly believe it either. Its a fluffy, hilarious excuse the lask of modesty chapter that didn't really fit into the story timeline but I couldn't bear not to share it. Meanwhile, it might buy me some time to try finish it?
1. re2 Start at the Beginning

No

**Surprise! **

**In case you hadn't noticed, "The Daughter Of" is undergoing some hard out renovations! Never fear though! The essentials will still be here:**

**I am still Mariah, your egocentric author. **

"**The Mediator" series still belong to the (slightly less fabulous than me, but only just,) Meg Cabot.**

**The story is more or less the same/similar.**

**However I have done some seriously harsh editing and re-writing, and so on. I just wanted to clarify and sharpen this story a little.**

Oh. And the title will soon be changed to "Legacy"

**Love and kisses for all!**

Re-1). The Beginning 

No. This isn't happening. This CAN'T be happening. Please . . . PLEASE tell me you're joking.

My mother reached out and laid a hand gently on my shoulder. "I'm so sorry Melinda."

I stared at her and my father, sitting there on the living room couch, effectively tipping my life upside down.

"I wish . . ." mum sighed. "I wish I could tell you that I was joking."

Me too. "But . . ." my voice was indistinguishable. I cleared my throat and tried again. "But this is . . . _crazy_. I don't believe it."

And yet . . . I did. I DID believe it.

I guess I'd always known that there was something wrong with me . . . Although I was thinking more along the lines of Diabetes. Or maybe Anaemia. Strangely enough, the thought that I might be able to SEE GHOSTS never even crossed my mind.

I looked up and met mum and dads concerned eyes and tried to make a joke. "So . . . I guess I'm like a ghost buster now?"

Mum grimaced.

"Not really." Dad—always the joke killer—said. "What you have to understand, Melinda, is that being a Mediator—"

"Excuse me. How come you got naming dibs? "mediator" sounds so sixties flower power. I'd much rather—"

"Melinda . . ." Mum warned.

Oh for Gods sake. Don't you just HATE it when the parentals tag-team you?

Sucks ass.

"—being a mediator comes with responsibilities," Dad continued, "and—"

Great. Make the job sound like a fucking hall-monitor, why don't you?

'—you have a duty to the souls who are not at rest to help them to their afterlife."

Okay. I'm sorry. But if I'm correct, daddy darling, mum didn't really help YOU find YOUR afterlife now, did she?

INSTEAD SHE BROUGHT YOU BACK TO LIFE, HAD **SEX** WITH YOU, AND VOILA!! I'M THE OFFSPRING!!

If having a dad who was legally dead a couple _centuries_ ago doesn't get me on Oprah, nothing will.

. . . But whatever. Bygones, man. Bygones.

"Jesse," mum said quietly to her husband. "Leave it for now. She's got enough to worry about."

Thanks Ma. Of course, you do OWE ME, considering that it's YOUR bloody D.N.A that's responsible for the genetic abnormality that I am. Well, that coupled with the fact that you got freaky with a GHOST.

Therefore, I would just like to point out, that if ever anyone calls me weird ever again, I will now have a good reason for being so. Not that this is something I'll want to go shouting around . . .

When I once met Nicks father, Paul Slater, whose a lawyer, he said that I do a bit too much shouting things around. He says I get it from my mother, and that I should be nicer to people, because you "catch more flies with honey than with vinegar."

_I_ think Mr Slater may have a possible drug problem.

It's my only explanation.

And his spawn, Nick, is equally repellent, and just as inclined to use his powers for evil. A real man-bitch that one.

Oh, sure, he's HOT, don't get me wrong, but he's just such a fucking negative-cheese! He was _thrilled _when Brian dumped me

At my best friend's funeral.

At Stacy's _funeral._

Stacy's dad, Gervis, was standing up behind the shiny black coffin, barely visible beneath all the red roses, Stacy's favourite, talking about his precious daughter. He could barely talk, he was that chocked up. He loved her so much . . . after her death, he left Stacy's mum. Said there was no point without his little princess. In the middle of his emotional reminiscences about "Princess", Brian tapped me on the shoulder and said in a really loud stage whisper: "I reckon we should break up, yeah?"

I think the only person who maybe didn't hear him was Grandma Vanderleigh, and she's a little hard on the hearing. Not to mention the fact that she's not always "there", if you get my drift. I don't think she even knew _why_ she was at this funeral. In fact, I'm pretty sure she didn't, because afterwards she came up to me and asked me if I was having a nice birthday.

Personally I would prefer it if Nick and Brian would just hook up already. I mean, I think we all know Brain's gay, and for two reasons: ONE, his name is B-R-I-A-N. It just _screams_ gay hairdresser. And TWO: He passed up on all of _this. _Everyone wants a piece of _this._

Yeah.

So why have they waited so long? Nick and Brian I mean.

We've already established Brian's sexual tendencies, and Nick? Well, Nick'll stick anything that's still for long enough. If he'll go out with Cindy—the dumbest fucking airhead God ever created—then I for one cannot discern any personal standards whatsoever.

. . . Bitter? Me?

Nah . . .

"So . . . Honey? Mum gently interrupted my musings. "I don't want to sound like one of those up themselves shrinks, but how do you feel about all this?"

I smiled slightly.

I knew that mum and dad were worried about my mental health, seeing as they'd just told me that I could see dead people and all that jazz.

But you know . . . it really didn't bother me.

I said as much to them.

They frowned, clearly not sure wether to believe me or not.

"Come one guys." I shrugged. "We always knew that there was a special ward in Bellevue reserved just for me."

I guess I have to say that . . . it all makes sense now.

Cliché, huh?

Then I stoped smiling as something occurred to me. "So . . . does . . . _everyone_ come back as a ghost?"

Dad's gaze was a little too understanding for my liking, as he replied, "No. Only those who have reason to remain earthbound."

"Unfinished business," mum supplied.

Oh how UN-awesome. My life is suddenly like a spin-off of "Casper meets Wendy".

I shrugged again. "Oh well. That's Ok then. I know that Stacy has unfinished business. I mean . . . she never said goodbye, even. That's definitely unfinished business, right?"

Mum shifted uncomfortably and dad wouldn't meet my eyes.

Eventually, mum broke the silence. "Oh honey . . . I don't know . . . Stacy . . . well, Stacy _chose _ her . . . uh, her path—'

. . . A fact I knew only all to well. I don't think I'd ever forget that day.

Alanna and I went to Stacy's house to try and get her to come out with us. A movie or ice-cream or something, I don't remember. We turned up her street and couldn't even get up the driveway because a heap of emergency vehicles were in the way. Policemen were swarming and the whole house was taped off . . . Then my phone rang, and I got a hysterical phone call from my mother, telling me to come home, everything was fine, just "Melinda, please _please _come home right now . . .".

But I wanted to know.

We ducked the tape and ran over the Vanderleigh's lawn (Stacy's mom would have freaked,) but a Police lady grabbed my arm, and another one grabbed Alanna. But it didn't matter anyway. Because being wheeled out of Stacy's front door was a body, covered and strapped to a gurney. Stacy's mom, assisted by a paramedic, stumbled out the door after the gurney and reached out to grab the body with grappling hands.

Her fingernail polish was a weird gold brown colour.

And then I knew. I knew exactly who the body belonged to. And I let the policewoman lead me away. She took me and Alanna home. Mum took me into the kitchen and hugged me lots, then explained that Stacy had killed herself. Because she must have been sad. And then mum made me a hot-chocolate, but I couldn't drink it because the colour made me think of Mrs Vanderleigh's nail polish.

"You know mum," I snapped, "topping yourself isn't actually an _automatic disqualification_. Stacy WASN'T "sad". And she didn't say goodbye." I repeated stubbornly, getting to my feet. "She HAS to be back. She HAS to be."

I was all ready to stomp off up the stairs, but I was stoped in my tracks by dad, who said all warningly "Melinda. No. You are not just walking off."

I was about to say "_watch me_" but mum beat me to it.

"No we will not watch you. Your father is right Melinda. Sure Stacy might come back, she might be in the kitchen waiting, but honey, she might not be."

I dismissed this.

Dad raised his eyebrows at me.

"_What_?" I jumped on the defensive. "Yes, OKAY, I heard you. _Jesus_."

I gave each of them a hug and left. And I did _NOT_ go past the kitchen, just to see if Stacy would be there, sitting on the counter and munching an apple, like she used to.

Okay, so I did.

And she wasn't.

As I climbed the stairs to bed that night, I was unchanged physically; but I was aware that my life had changed forever that night.

**Review and tell me what you think!!**


	2. Re2 PeekaBoo

**Chapter Two --renovated.**

**As always, tell me what you think. **

**Reminder: "The Daughter Of" will soon be called "Legacy"**

Re-2). Peek-a-Boo

It was something that always really pissed me off in books and movies and all that shet. You know the whole "life goes on after tragedy" bullshit. Hello! A character just DIED! Do you not GET THAT?

. . . And yet it's semi true.

No matter what you do, you can't stop life. Not that I was enjoying it. But I was at school, breathing, even smiling at the side-splitting jokes Stacy would have found hilarious. But I wasn't really _with it_, if you know what I mean. And I don't think that's unreasonable of me. At least I _wasn't_, until I was so rudely interrupted with the one and only.

Nick. Nick Slater.

You remember, the man-bitch?

Yeah, decided to grace me with his presence. HARK THE ANGELS BURST INTO JOYFUL SONG!!!!

Not.

"Melinda!" he drawled, "So pleased to see you kitten! But why keep so to yourself on such a beautiful day?"

I just stared at him.

Alannah and the rest of the group stared too. My friend Arabia's boyfriend even did us the courtesy of leaving his mouth open as he stared. And lets just say the school corndogs, that aren't exactly fine cuisine on a good day, look even worse half masticated.

"Please go away," I said in my slowest, most careful voice, the one I use on the really little kids who haven't quite grasped the fact that OVENS are HOT and if you touch them you get BURNT. Then I added under my breath; "Perra."

He didn't react at all to my calling him a bitch in Spanish. Could be because he didn't know. Doesn't speak Spanish, more fool him.

He smiled this condescending little smile at me and said in a slight singsong voice, "Now now Melinda. You wouldn't happen to be wallowing now would you? Because we all know that's unhealthy."

"Muérdame." **(A/N: bite me)** I replied, knowing full well He can't understand a word I say when I start spouting Spanish.

So _where_ does he get off patronising me? ME! _HE_ only moved here a month ago, I'VE lived here my entire life! Which is a lot longer than he had.

I herd something about Paul's father living here when he was in his teens, Nick thinks he can just worm his way in here straight from Chicago—warmly welcomed by airheads such as Cindy—and starts giving ME health advice?

"Whatever. Go away. You're annoying me."

It wasn't much of a surprise to see him ignore me completely. Nick never listened, really _listening_, to anything I had to say. He heard what he wanted to. Anything else and you were just wasting your breath.

Proving me right, he said, "Tsk tsk. All this pent up emotion Melinda. Why waste it on me?" he scanned the beautiful courtyard in front of us and suddenly smiled his cold smile, "Now there's a worthy victim," he said indicating at the breezeway though which Brian and some other guy I didn't recognise had walked through. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't I hear a little dispute present itself between you two at Stacy's funeral?"

Snort. Dispute. That implies two different opinions. Really Brian said we should break up and then sat there for the rest of the service. In silence. I didn't say anything either. Because just then I didn't really care. I probably would've reacted a little differently had it been any other time and place. But it wasn't.

So I didn't.

"God, they're very secure." I muttered, indicating at the small—non-existent really—space between them. In hellish joints such as high school that's just asking for trouble.

"I'll say," said Nick, apparently having heard me, "Ha, that why he dump you? Looks like that 'other woman' turned out to be a man."

"WhatEVER! Why?? What did you hear? There was no one else! Whatever you heard was a lie! It was mutual decision! It was _such _a mutual decision that I'M surprised at the mutual-ness of the MUTUAL decision!"

Huh. Mutual. Yeah. And I'm the tooth fairy.

. . . Maybe that was a Little white lie.

I got all defensive there too; I just have to hope he didn't notice . . .

"Sure, Sure," said Nick slyly, which told me he'd noticed all that I didn't want him to. "I believe you. Don't worry we all heard _exactly_ what happened, so there's no show of any . . . exaggerations."

Which is just the twisted mans way of saying, 'yeah freaking right, we HEARD him dump you. I wont tell. There's no need. Everyone knows.'

Fan-fucking-tastic.

But Brian and that guy did look pretty cosy . . . AND YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS!!!!!!

Dios, I ACTAUALLY made a guy gay. Actually actually.

. . . I don't want to think about that too closely.

How embarrassing.

But at least I was saved the _further_ embarrassment of having to come up with a story to relay to Nick by the sudden arrival of novices, telling us lunch was over and to hurry on to our next class so we wouldn't 'miss a second of our vital tutorage that will equip us with the mandatory tools that we need to face the big wide world.'

I'm not even kidding. That's what the one closest to us said. And in this really high-pitched voice that sounded impossibly cheery. It freaked me out.

I think a little something extra has been added to the sacramental bread.

I'm getting me some of THAT!!!!!

-Legacy-

"MISS DE SILVA! ARE YOU LISTENING??? WOULD YOU KINDLY EXPLAIN TO US THE PURPOSE AND METHOD OF THIS EXPERIMENT?"

Experiment? What experiment? We were working on an Experiment?

_Crap_.

"Uhh . . . wait . . . don't tell me . . ."

By which, of course, I meant, 'Quick! Somebody! TELL ME!'

I wonder what the nun would do if I said 'fucked if I know!' in tones of utter indignancy and walked out.

. . . Probably chase me down the corridor and drag me back by my ear. This is Sister Ernestine were talking about here.

"I thought not." She said in tones of utter smugness. "KINDLY pay attention, Miss DeSilva, or I will have no other option but to write you up."

Oh, like that would be _such_ a chore for her.

"Sure thing sister, you have my undivided attention."

It didn't take a genius to know I was lying.

And back I went to staring out the window at the ocean.

I wasn't even thinking. I was just staring meaninglessly into the deep, rich blue sea. The deepest thing that went through my head was; ' . . . I wonder what you call male ladybugs? Manbugs?'

Arabia and some other chick I didn't know were staring at me, and some others were staring at them, so I guess I was a distraction. Something Sister Ernestine found important to nip in the bud.

"MELINDA DE SILVA!" she said furiously, swelling in anger, "That is the second time! Out! Outside right now, I'll deal with you after class. Off you trot!"

Oh well. No skin off my ass. I wasn't exactly going to benefit from these hours of science. I think they should know by now that I have no intentions of following a scientific path once I finish school.

Well, not unless I need to sell my organs for rent money.

So off I trotted. All the way to the beach. Hey, Ernestine was the one who told me to go outside, outdoors qualify as anywhere that's not indoors right? So can _I_ be blamed for a little misinterpretation?

No sir!

I think the principal, Father Dominic, almost spotted me in the distance, but I was gone before he could push his glasses a little higher up his nose.

So it was s'all gud.

Have you ever noticed that beaches have always had that calming, tranquil vibe about them?

Its positively gorgeous.

. . . Although the effect _was_ somewhat ruined by the dozens of buzzing tourists and their screaming children demanding another ice cream because mysteriously their current one was shrinking.

So I walked further and further down the shore, until the growing roughness of the water and darkening in colour of the sand meant a depopulation of tourists.

It was great.

Even better than a double buttered toasted sandwich at "Greta's café". And that takes some beating.

Now my new solitary left me free to deeply contemplate what I was in Science Class.

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

If anything I was wallowing. Not good, I know, but I couldn't help it.

And when I wasn't wallowing I was just sitting there watching the waves.

I don't know how long I sat there for. A while anyway, because the next time I consciously thought of time, the sun was going down and glinting off the sea, and the sea gulls were just starting to shut up.

And then I hear, faintly, these footsteps compressing the dry sand—you know that sound? The-person-walking-on-dry-sand sound? No? Where have you BEEN? Anyway, I away from the ever beautiful ocean and see the unmistakable figures of Alanna and Arabia approaching. Well that was ok. For some crazy reason, I thought it might've been Nick.

Crazy, huh?

"Girl you got everyone crazy!" called Arabia, "Ernestine may just die from shock any minute now! That was the effect you were after right? Kill the overbearing nun?"

What could you say? 'No I came to be alone so go away?' To my friends? I don't have many friends. I don't know why. Girls just don't like me. And the friends I do have seem to be killing themselves off.

This thought caused me to heave a small sigh and stare at the ink black jandals lying next to my bare feet in the dry sand.

"Oh." Said Alanna, in gentle understanding.

"Yeah. Oh." Was all I said.

Well what else could I have said? "Oh . . ._and _I-can-see-dead-people-but-my-no-one-thinks-Stacy-will-bother-to-come-back-because-she-killed-herself?

Yeah. Right. I mean, I don't want any MORE trauma on my hands.

"Do you . . . I mean, have you ever . . ." Alanna trailed off confusedly.

"Wondered why she did it?" I finished her question in a dull voice.

"Well . . . _yeah_. I mean, did she ever say anything to you? . . . Or . . . Or maybe, I did something . . .? Or—"

"No. No way," said Arabia. "If anyone's to be blamed then it should be her!"

Alanna made this squawk of disbelief, and Arabia shrugged. "I mean it."

"And I," I said coldly, "Agree. Stacy just left us. And she's not coming back. Why? Because she doesn't WANT to."

"Um you know. Okay. That's you know . . . Okay. But uh, I don't think you really _do_ mean that," Alanna said, her voice getting stronger with every word, "Either of you. And if you think about it, something's wrong. Something is _really_ screwed up. I . . . I just don't know what it is."

YA' DON'T SAY.

But I didn't say anything. I couldn't. They weren't burdened with my curse. It was mine, mine to endure and conceal. Alanna especially. She was not going to hear it from me that her best friend really did top herself because she WANTED to die.

. . . THAT'S what's wrong.

"So . . ." I said to break the awkward silence, "I think we've all had quite a big enough day . . ."

"Absolutely," said Alanna, always quick to avoid conflict.

At the same time as Arabia said "Fuck yes."

Alanna frowned at her choice of words, and Arabia giggled.

I haven't known Arabia for long but she strikes me as pretty awesome, you know. She's universally liked and really laid back. A good time girl, that one.

Anyhow.

"So. Why don't we all get fat, and laze around watching videos?" said Arabia. "SOME people," she said, glaring at Alanna, "need to eat more."

". . . Its not my fault," Alanna whispered. "I just have a super speedy metabolism . . ."

I laughed. It was true. The girl could eat like a horse. A very enviable quality.

Not that Arabia (Arabia's parents weren't very original were they? I for one would hate to be called 'America,') has any reason to be jealous. She herself was gorgeous. She has a dark chocolate coloured complexion, and curves to die for.

Alanna was a typical ice-cream blonde, tall and skinny with a fair complexion.

"Sure I'm up for videos. "Superbad" all the way."

"I am McLovin . . ." Arabia agreed.

Alanna looked at us like we were potty. Which, we probably are. I have no-idea how a normal person behaves, having never been one of those infamous normalities. "On a school night??" interjected Alanna, scandalised.

"Oh yes dear. It IS on a school night isn't it?" I said in a patronising voice, "how _terrible_." Then I cracked up. "You know, you should be used to this, being around me and St—such others like myself. For once in your life _be a rebel_ Alanna! Take a walk on the wild side!"

Arabia sniggered.

Alanna caved and together we missioned it back up to my house.

_-Legacy -_

"MOM!!!! I'm home!" Mom doesn't usually beat me home, but today she had a day off. She works at a psychiatric clinic. She gets a real kick out of helping someone who thinks they're crazy because they've had a supernatural experience. Of course they do drive her up the wall now and again and she comes home and kicks the shit out of the kickboxing bag in the basement, but dad just grins and lets her get on with it.

She loved helping people, much as she'd like to pretend otherwise.

She was happy. And for dad, that was all he cared about.

"Mom!!"

Ooh.

Just had a thought.

School might have rung.

Hmm.

Dad home? Wait no, double shift at the hospital for makes things easier.

"Melinda? That you?" mom said coming into the hall.

"Yeah. Yeah it is. Listen I'm sorry about making you worry, but—"

"I know honey. I know." She said as she pulled me into a tight hug. "But can I just say; don't leave the house again without a cell phone. Deal? I realise you don't need this now, but, please just promise you'll take your phone out next time."

"Deal." I said shaking her hand.

"Well, now that that's taken care of, let me guess, major fat food and movies?"

At our nods she said; "good. Well Cee's here and were gonna sit up the back and throw popcorn at you and whisper really loudly ok?"

Oh god. My mother thinks she cool.

"Muuuuumm . . ." I whinged, following her into the dining room, as she sprang off to set out Dads dinner. I seriously hope I have that much energy when I'm a Mom. And that I like my husband enough to feed him. "Come on . . ."

"Relax, Bowtruckle," she laughed at my less than thrilled expression. "Cee and I will just be in the kitchen. Drinking coffee and talking about married lady things."

. . . Ok, too much information.

I know mom was young when they were married. Mom was only 21 and Dad was 26. They had me a year later—or so they say. Lol.

I once asked them why they got hitched so young and had a kid so soon, and they said that was all they ever wanted. "Why wait when you know you've got the world and time is precious?"

I didn't know about the whole ghost thing then.

Time really _was_ precious.

Not everyone had a hundred and fifty years to spend waiting for true love.

And not every one had well enough luck that their love was able to bring the your dead ass back to life.

Huh. Some people . . .

We walked into the living room and talked Cee Cee into fixing up the D.V.D player, ("ts not that _hard_ really girls . . .") and then we were away. We could hear Mom and Cee, true to their word, laughing a sqwaking even from the kitchen.

Typical.

You'd think they were the 17yr olds.

Then I herd the doorbell ring in the middle of Transformers (all time most AWESOME movie,)

I went to answer it, grinning at the "Can I ride you home?" line, and opened the door.

And the smile instantly turned into more of a grimace.

"Nick. Who else. What do you want? And make it quick I'm busy."

"What? Hosting the marvellous male entertainer Brian? Or should I call him Chi-Chi from now on?" Nick said with a smirk as he stepped around me and indoors.

"Stop it. You're not funny. What do you want?" I repeated.

"Well if you insist I cut to the chase . . . "

"Yes I do insist!" I snapped, slamming the door shut and placing my hands on my hips. "Stop fucking around and say what you have to say and then get out of my house."

"Right here? Are you sure you want that?" he said coyly, reaching out and playing with a curl of my hair. I swatted him away with a frown. "I mean, what if I accidentally say something you don't want anyone else to hear?" he had his 'ooh, look, I'm a goodie wee Samaritan' face on. "Especially them." He said, indicating down towards the sitting room, where the sounds of laughter were drifting down to us.

Nick looked down at me all innocently, which was conclusive enough to prove to me that he was anything but.

He knew something.

"Fine." I growled, "Follow me. But shut up about it."

He smirked then followed me up the stairs.

And I just have to hope, for my own peace of mind, that he wasn't looking at my butt.

But I bet he was. The son of a bitch.

I didn't bother looking into the ornate wood framed mirror as I entered my orange room; I knew what I'd see. Tall and slender, toned limbs and long black hair that went halfway down my back, green flecked eyes and a dark, mocha complexion. My cheekbones were high, my nose straight and my skin flawless.

It was good enough.

"Now." I said as I closed the door, "what was so important that you had to disturb me at my home at what, 10:00?"

"Watch your back kid." He said without more preamble, "I know something you don't. You really don't know what your in for. And I don't want you hurt."

Kid. Who he trying to call kid? I'm _almost_ as tall as he is. No mean feat. And—hang on.

"You don't want me to get hurt? Oh that's just dandy. I thank you for the chivalry, but please. I can handle myself. Ok? You don't even know me. So don't _you_ come in here telling _me_ to be careful!"

"Shut up Melinda. You don't know me either. You think you have me all worked out but you don't know the half of it. And as for you? I know a lot more about you than you think I do. I know that up until YESTERDAY, you didn't even know what you ARE, so how could you know me?"

I scoffed. "Oh, yeah sure. Give me ONE example—"

But a slight shimmer in the corner distracted me, and when I turn around I saw Stacy. Slightly transparent, its true, but nevertheless it was her. She smiled nervously at us and said "hey guys."

Nick looked right at her and said; "Hey Stace."

HOLD THE PHONE!!!!!!

STACY WAS HERE!!! AS A GHOST!!! AND NICK COULD SEE HER!!! NICK COULD **SEE** HER!!!! NICK COULD SEE STACY THE GHOST!!!!

Then Nick looked right at me and said all calmly; "_For example_"he mockingly quoted the words back at me, "I know you've had the ability to interact with ghosts your whole life. Something you didn't know up until Sunday."

"So you mean to say—that you—that I—_Oh for Christs sake!_"

And then I just stoped fighting for consciousness.

And blacked out.

. . . How embarrassing.

**I can't wait to read your review! **

**Love and kisses;**

**Mariah**


	3. re3 Fairytale Time

**Ladies and Gentlemen, Boys and Girls, it is my very great pleasure to present to you, the magnificent, the marvelous, the most razzly dazzling lady of the stage . . .**

**Mariah !!!**

**Thank you, Thank you. I love you all.**

**Read this chapter carefully. You might pick up a little (sexually-transmitted) something.**

**. . . If you're lucky. **

Re-3) Fairytale Time

I can't believe it. I _fainted_. I actually FAINTED! Did anyone ELSE faint? . . . Oh, I'm so PATHETIC. I feel like one of those dumb bitch 19th century chicks who'd faint if someone said "penis".

Actually. Scrap that. Penis would have been a heart attack. "Ankle" was faint-worthy.

. . . if I had a time machine, I would go to the 19th century and run around singing the Penis song just to see what would happen . . . bet you my Jimmy Choo gladiator heels I'd be burned for witchcraft . . .

. . . you may be wondering of I had hit my head?

. . . I know I was.

But oh no. turns out I'm not nearly that lucky. I opened my eyes to find myself on my bed, my head propped up on pillows.

. . . And Nick Slater's face mere inches from my own.

Um . . . Date Rape?

. . . Oh, that little bastard must have caught me! And put me here!

BASTARD!!!!

I'd much rather . . .

What, Melinda? You'd much rather what? Hit the floor and concuss yourself?

. . . Uh, when it comes down to it . . . yeah, actually, I would.

I groaned a little.

I guess Nick thought this was down to an injury of some sort, instead of just a confusing skitzo conversation with myself, as he reached down and grabbed my shoulders.

"Melinda!" He gave me a little shake. "MELINDA!!"

"Ow, yeah, shaking Nick?" I said, pushing his hands away and sitting up. "Not cool."

"Melinda! MELINDA! Thank god, you're awake!"

"I _know_ that." I said grumpily, "Now gerroff me." slapping him away again and attempting to stand up.

Not one of my better ideas as it turns out.

Oh I got up all right. It was staying there that seemed to be the problem. I stood up, and was all right for a second, before I swayed.

I didn't _fall_ exactly, I grabbed onto the bedpost, ensuring I just swung around it and ended up on the bed again. I must have looked like a really stoned poll dancer.

Great. Every little girls dream.

Not.

"Melinda, please, let me—"

"Fuck off Nick." I muttered. "I don't need your help."

HE should be the one on the ground. I should have punched him in the nose while I was still upright.

A perfect opportunity gone to waste!

Why me. I ask you.

Couldn't I just be 'NORMAL'!!!!

'_Normal' _teenagers can't see DEAD PEOPLE.

BUT NO!!!

Apparently me being '_normal_ is not part of the PLAN.

Boy. When I finally meet my maker, am I going to have some choice words for him!

HOW embarrassing. Fainting I mean. How GAY. I guess that in light of my recent stress and newfound abilities, my conscious just gave up and let my subconscious take over.

Nick ignored me and took my hand.

I was actually too surprised at this to remember to be angry.

"Melinda, stay here. I'm just going to go and get your mum, okay? Don't move."

"Wait! You don't need to—" but he was already gone.

I sighed and looked up, and almost fell off the bed again. Stacy was still there. Astounding.

"Oh sick of being dead are you?" I asked snottily.

"Melinda," Stacy said wearily, "Don't start." Then she mumbled so quietly she must not have meant for me to hear, "I knew you were going to be like this"

"Go back to your cave batgirl. You're dead to me. Oh wait,' I said, smiling unkindly, "You're dead to everyone."

"That was uncalled for." She said, sounding hurt.

"So was SUICIDE."

"I DIDN'T I--! Oh, God, where to start . . . Nick was right . . ."

"Wait a minute, WHO was right? NICK??? So ignore ME and go and talk to HIM??? WHY THE HELL WOULD YOU DO _THAT_????"

"Well if you'd SHUT YOUR TRAP for long enough, I'd be able to clue you in!" Stacy shouted, as she started to pace the room. I could hear the masses of jewelry she always wore jangling. "I haven't been hiding from you. Not at all. I've been following you, and watching you. I didn't even know you could see me! I knew Father Dom's could, but I didn't know that you or Nick could see me! He DID see me as it turns out. He saw me following you, and he explained everything to me.

She smiled and I rolled my eyes.

"He told me how you _could_ see me, but I couldn't let you, and it made sense. The other ghosts all spoke of the forbidden mediator. That's you," she added. "You're like a ghost taboo. At least, you were, while you didn't know. Now life is going to suck," she attempted a weak smile.

Then something caught up with me.

"So you mean to tell me," I said loudly. "That not only can my MOTHER and FATHER and NICK see dead people, but also FATHER DOM? . . . Isn't lying like a commandment or whatever?"

Ooh that priest. He is _so_ going to hell.

Yeah Melinda. If he's off to hell, then you're basically screwed, because there is no dude holy-er than father D.

I doubt even JESUS was as holy as Father D.

. . . Sorry Jesus. It's a compliment, really, it is.

"God, couldn't SOMEONE have clued me in? This is just not been my week."

"Yeah, yeah yeah, witter on about how misunderstood you are later—"

"MISUNDERSTOOD????" I screeched, "Dead people Stacy!!!!! DEAD ONES!!!!"

"I know ok! I KNOW!! But unless you want to add your own murder to that list of things that went wrong then—"

"_My _murder??? Huh? I mean, I know I'm not exactly miss POPULARITY, but who the hell—"

"**LISTEN TO ME!!!**" Stacy screamed, stopping her pacing to grab my shoulders and shake me violently.

Whoa. Why is it always the littlest people who can yell the loudest? Stacy was quite petite, and I had to admit, she cut an intimidating figure.

She wore tight white jeans, with a clinging satin racer back top, accessorized with a white patterned neck scarf and pearls (at the same time! Only Stacy could have dressed like this, and made it work,) and she wore her straight shoulder length black hair messy. I then flicked a glance downward to see if she wore her favorite green Chuck Taylors with the ensemble, and she did.

It was then that I remembered to focus on what she was saying.

Seeing as it did kind of directly involve me and all that.

"IM TRYING TO TELL EXACTLY WHY SOMEONE WANTS TO KILL YOU!!!!" Stacy screamed some more. "SO **SHUT UP!!!" **

Jesus Christ. She just keeps getting louder and louder.

"I DIDN'T DO IT OK!!!!! I DIDN'T KILL MYSELF!!!! I WASN'T THE ONE WHO DID IT!!!!"

. . .What the hell??

"I'm not dead because I WANT to be!!!! I thought you'd know me better than that! You KNOW I think that suicide is the most SELFISH thing you can do!"

"Tell me what happened Stacy," I said quietly.

"I was in the bathroom," she said, her voice dropping down to barely a whisper, "painting my nails. Mocha Brown." She said with a dry, humorless laugh.

I remembered the colour all to well.

The thing I remember most about that night was Stacy's mother's nails as she reached hopelessly out to her daughters lifeless body, again and again . . .

"It all happened so quickly. The brush just shot out of my hand and started painting by itself. Then the bottle started hovering, before hurtling towards me. I ducked, and turned just in time to see the bottle smash against the wall. But then I felt a towel go around my neck and tighten, cutting off my air.

"I—I tried to scream but I couldn't," Stacy's voice wobbled a little. "I was choking and clawing at the towel . . . then I was thrown across the room, and I smacked my head on the tiles and slipped. I tried to get up, really I did. But I was just too slow . . . I felt something hard and cool kicked next to me. I looked up, and just stopped fighting. Quit struggling all together. My mind jus went blank, and I found myself extending my arm to pick up the object next to me. I didn't want to, but I couldn't stop myself! I lifted it to my head and . . . and . . _pulled_." Stacy swallowed heavily, and I saw tear wind their way over her pretty cheeks. "but I swear I didn't mean to! It was like it wasn't even me! It was like it was somebody else! A—"

I understood.

"A ghost." I said shortly.

"Exactly. " She said, looking me in the eyes. And I saw the raw fear and pain in her eyes.

"But I think I got a glimpse of him before--I had to! Its all I've thought about, and—"

"Stace. Its ok." I tried to soothe her, "It doesn't—"

"But I have to! He was heavy," she rushed her words together so I had trouble keeping up. "And around 50, shorter than me, and a bit of an eyesore—you have to _know _Melinda! What if he gets to you? Don't you see? You are in big trouble! If he finds you--"

"Then it saves me the bother of hunting him down."

"No! NO!!!! LISTEN TO ME!! He'll kill you all, and everyone you love!! Do you want to die Melinda? Do you want to be dead _like me_?"

And then I saw.

And for the first time all week, I knew exactly what was going on.

**(A/N: ON GUARD!!! readers sensitive to blasphemy, LOOK AWAY!!!!)**

Cogida.

**(A/N: Yes I know it's in Spanish. And I know im going to get asked it's meaning. I'll give you a hint; in English it has four letters and begins with "F". So . . . AS YOU WERE!!!!)**

I won't lie. I was worried. Not for myself, I wanted the people I care about no where _near_ this dead psychopath . . .

Oh GOD, what have I gotten myself into now! It's all my fault! It's _always_ all my fault! _How _do I get myself into crap like this?

Just then the door was opened, and Mom, Dad, Nick, Cee Cee, Arabia and Alannah all came through.

Then all those who could see dear Stacy, blinking furiously to hold back tears, saw her.

Those who couldn't? Yeah, they just stood there, looking blankly around the room.

Mom took control straight away. She turned to Cee Cee and said; "Cee, I'm sure the girls would love some desert. Could you possibly see to that for me?"

Cee Cee frowned. "Huh?" Then quickly her eyes widened, she looked around the room and nodded to mum. "Come on girls. The freezers unguarded." She made as if put an arm around Arabia's shoulder and lead her out of the room.

Arabia stuck her chin out determinedly and said; "No thank you. I'm good. Nick said something about Melinda—"

"I'm fine guy's." I cut her off. "Really."

I could see by the looks on their faces that they just thought I was in need of a little more mourning time.

I _wished. _I didn't need to mourn her, she was right here. Looking sadder than ever that her friends couldn't even see her.

Alanna shot me a strange look, but nevertheless her and Arabia left with Cee, and that was the idea, so I suppose . . .

Then it hit me. All of us, grouped here together, it was like painting a big bulls-eye on us, just like killing . . . 4 birds with one stone. Or gun.

Then I started babbling.

"MOM-I-GET-IT-NOW-STACY-DIDN'T-KILL-HERSELF-SHE-WAS-KILLED-THERE-IS-A-BIG-DIFFERENCE-AND-I-KNOW-WHO-DID-IT-OUR-ONLY-CLUE-IS-THAT -HES-A-GHOST-SO-THAT'S-WHY-HE-MADE-IT-LOOK-LIKE-STACE-HERSELF-HAD-DONE-IT-AND-BECAUSE-HE'S-A-GHOST-ITS-NOT-LIKE-HE-COULD-BE-PROSECUTED-BUT-WE-DO-HAVE-ONE-CLUE-SO-WE-HAVE-A-CHANCE- HE'S-MIDDLE-AGED-AND-UGLY-AND-VERY-VERY-DEAD!-I-NEVER-SAID-IT-WAS-A-GOOD-CLUE-BUT-IYTS-STILL-A-CLUE-EVEN-IF-THERE-ARE-A LOT-OF-UGLY-MIDDLE-AGE-PEOPLE-OUT-THERE-BUT-HOW-MANY-UGLY-MIDDLE-AGED-GHOSTS-ARE-THERE-AND-WHILE-HE'S-STILL-AT-LARGE-WERE-ALL-IN-DANGER-SO-DON'T-YOU-SEE-WE-HAVE-TO-GO-WE-HAVE-TO-"

It was no good. They didn't speak babble! Well, mom does, but she was still preoccupied fussing over my so-called faint.

When, REALLY, I didn't faint . . . I just . . . tripped over. Yeah.

ANYWAY!!!!

What is it with the rest of the world's communication skills! EVERYONE should have to speak multiple languages! It should be LAW. I can speak Babble, I can Speak French—well all right the only words I know are swear words and simple, important phrases such as "Mom, the cats dead!" Or, "What happened to Freddie!" but I speak fluent English and . . .

Wait.

"¡cPapá! ¡Era ASESINATO! ¡Stacy no se mató! ¡La ASESINARON! ¡Por un viejo individuo gordo! Y ahora él está después de que yo, y todos nosotros, y nosotros tengan una diana en nosotros, y, mierda, somos adentro profundos."

Spanish.

Fluent English and Spanish.

**(A/N: Translation: "****DAD! It was MURDER! Stacy didn't kill herself! She was MURDERED! By a fat old guy! And now he's after me, and all of us, and we have a bulls-eye on us, and, Shit, we are in deep.")**

Dad got it. And he translated to the rest of the room for me too.

He had to.

I was still muttering darkly in Spanish about all the terrible things I was going to do to this ghost when I caught up with him.

You see; I don't usually panic in situations like this. I'm sure you'll agree with me when I say this has been an exceptional week.

Instead, I have this little personality defect, so when I get mad, I just get this irresistible urge to break things.

Mainly people.

It's a terrible habit, I know.

I think Mom was having a similar reaction to that of mine. No, really. I could practically see her wondering where she was going to get hold of chicken blood at this hour.

I think I know a place. How fast could we get to—

Dad seemed to know what we were thinking. "Susannah. Melinda. No. No exorcisms, until we consult with Padre."

SPEAKING OF WHICH.

"SO—" but didn't get a chance to finish what promised to be a long and successful rant, due to Nick butting in.

"Are you sure Melinda?" he said, leaning up against my doorframe. "I mean, you want to think about your next move a bit, don't just rush blindly into things. You just fainted, you're probably a little confused—"

I didn't FAINT!!! I just . . . closed my eyes. For a . . . nap. Yes, I was . . ._tired!_

"SHUT UP NICK!!!! What the fuck do you know about anything!—By the way, MUM, DAD, small bone to pick! How come HE," I pointed rudely at Nick, "knew about me before _I_ even knew about me!?"

"Umm," said Mom slowly, and she shot a nervous glance at dad. "Well ha-ha funny story that. You see, Carmel actually turns out to be quite the ghost central! We should really hold those seminars—"

"Susannah." Dad said warningly.

"Alright alright," She muttered, and I heard something about 'not messing up hair' and 'crucial issues' before she carried on. "Look. That was my fault. I came up with the idea not long after you were born. We knew you would be able to see them, me being a shifter, your dad being a mediator, so we both decided—"

Dad elbowed her.

"OK! Jeez, keep your hair on. _I_ decided, not to tell you. You didn't need to know! There were more than enough freaks in this town to keep them away from you."

Dad elbowed her again.

"What?" She demanded, "Jesse, interaction with dead people on a daily basis pretty much amounts to being freakish! I was just abbreviating! For God's sake! You and Father D, always with this 'gift' crap."

Dad took over. "A gift like that which you've been blessed with Melinda is just that. A gift. You can use it for the good of others, to help and—"

Yeah, you've mentioned this before, papa **(A/N: father. Obviously.) **dear.

"I'm with Mom." I interrupted. "It's a frigging curse and it _is_ freakish. Continue Mom."

Mom sighed. "Don't blame Father Dominic, or your Dad for this Melinda. It was my idea. I persuaded them to go along with it, and it took some work. And I wouldn't hesitate to do it all again too. Think of it, a TWO YEAR OLD being plagued by the undead. A KID. You didn't know what it's like, dead women waking you up by screaming at you in the middle of the night, then coming back to scream at you some more, because—whoops—you delivered a message to the wrong man, and almost get electrocuted, burnt and forced into ugly bathing suits in the process! Ooh, murder in the paper, you know your going to be busy for a while . . ghosts almost killing your principal and possible date . . . dropping crucifixes on people . . . throwing school founders statue's heads at you . . . vicious ex girlfriends/cousins waking you up and threatening to kill you if you didn't halt the current backyard construction . . .It SUCKED. There was no reason for you to deal with that when you were so young, there were more than enough of us to keep any ghosts away from you. Father Dom reluctantly agreed, and so did Jesse."

Dad muttered something about feminine wiles.

Which made me decide, I REALLY DON'T WANT TO KNOW HOW SHE TALKED DAD INTO AGREEING.

Father Dom? Fine, priests aren't really susceptible to fluttering eyelashes, but dad? Yeah, whenever Mom doesn't want to cook dinner, all she has to do is pout and he caves. Dad has no will power when it comes to her; she's his weak spot. And she knows it.

"We were going to tell you. Very soon actually. It was only a little bit sooner than we'd planned to tell you. See, we knew Stacy would go straight to you. So we had to tell you before she sorted herself out. Death can take a little time to master," she said, with a sly wink at dad.

Yes, well, he'd know.

" . . . I think I see where you're coming from." I said slowly, "And I understand so far. I really do. But HIM!!" I said, glaring for all I was worth at Nick, who was _still_ leaning in my doorway. "Why the hell does HE get to know??" I sounded like a pouty child.

"Ah." Said Nick, "well there's the rub."

"Shut-up." I snapped, "I was talking about you, not to you."

"My apologies. Continue."

"Hijo de una perra._" _I muttered_. _**(A/N: Translation: "Son of a bitch.")**

"Más que usted saben_." _Dad said. **(A/N: Translation: "More than you know.")**

"Huh?" I said, "Exlain?"

"Sorry Melinda. Its nothing." Dad said, but he still looked kind of pissed off.

Mom just ignored us. That's her custom when we go off in another language. "That's a good question Melinda." She said, and looked at Nick.

"Allow me." Nick said easily. "When we first moved back here from Chicago, Dad told me I would be going to the Junipero Serra mission academy**.** I was delighted_, _naturally.He told me to watch out for the priest. Of course, I soon discovered why. When the wise old Father did find out about my . . . _unique_ ability," Nick said with a smirk, "he was quick to help me into the life of a Carmel mediator. Some of the rules included no exorcisms without prior consultation, no fistfights, and no . . . relations with any of the undead.

"They make that a rule nowadays?" mum muttered.

Nick grinned and continued. "And as well as that I was to keep ghosts away from the pretty girl who didn't yet know what she was."

"You want to leave?" Dad said threateningly glaring at Nick.

Whoa. If looks could kill, the one dad just gave Nick would have been enough to put him 6 feet under for sure.

YAY DADDY!!!!!!!

"Jesse," said mom warningly.

"Susannah!" Dad began angrily, "That was _clearly_ a sexually inclined—"

"Doesn't matter!" Mom cut him off. "He came and got us when he realized she was hurt, and he never breathed a word to her before time!"

"Have you forgotten whose son he is?" demanded dad.

"No I haven't." Mom looked uncomfortable. "But we can't let the past dictate the future. Its over, we shook on it, we finished high school, and he left. He accepted defeat."

"But now he's back!"

"Yes he's back! Perhaps ready to associate with others of his creed! I'm not asking you to go and throw him a welcome barbeque or anything, but don't do this. It wont end well."

"Querida, you remember what happened last time we had this argument?"

"We're not sixteen anymore. There's nothing you can do about it. He's not come anywhere us. Leave it."

"And our daughter?"

"Nick's not a Shifter. He's just a mediator. He's not _him_ Jesse."

Dad was giving in. he didn't look too happy about it though. In fact, he looked even more irate.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" I asked.

"Melinda!" mum reprimanded, at the same time dad exploded, "Language, my girl!"

. . . Whatever.

Nick cleared his thought and continued with a grin. "Anyway. Gandalf seemed a little bothered by my surname, but I assured him Melinda wouldn't hear it from me and that seemed to pacify him."

"Mom?" I said carefully, not wanting to interrupt dad's death glaring at Nick, as golden as it was, "what's a Shifter?"

Nick shot me a look of surprise. "You mean she _still _doesn't know?" he asked incredulously, "Wow."

"Shut up." Mom snapped.

On three.

One.

Two.

Three.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!!!

YOU GOT **TOLD**!!!!!!!

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!!!!!!!!

SUCKER!!!!!

"Melinda, there's a . . . hierarchy between those who can interact with the dead," said Mom, a little tentatively. "There's the Mediators, which is your dad, Father D, Nick and Jack, but then there's this whole other level. They're called Shifters Mel. Shifters are descendants of the ancient Egyptian shamans. That's you, Paul and myself. They cannot only interact with the dead, but also possess, other . . . talents."

"I'm listening . . . wait. This wouldn't include time travel would it?"

"Umm, yes, it would. I—"

"Wait, who are Paul and Jack? More freaks?"

Now mom looked nervous, glancing apprehensively at dad, "Umm, Jack is Nicks uncle. And er, Paul is his—Nicks—father."

Dad frowned.

"Wait, you mean to tell me, _his_ father, and his uncle, can _both_ talk to the dead?" I asked incredulously.

"Slow to catch on there aren't you Melinda." Nick winked.

"Was I TALKING to you?" I snapped furiously.

"My mistake." Nick said smoothly, _still _leaning in my doorway, causing half of his face to be thrown into the shadows. And I was determinedly telling myself I didn't care how hot those shadows made him look. He was still EVIL.

So there. Shove THAT in your pipe and smoke it!

"What else can we do?" I asked, interestedly. Maybe I'd get superhuman strength! And the ability to become invisible and create force fields! Or super-stretchiness! Or be able to conjure fire! Or—

Or maybe I've been watching fantastic Four a little too much.

Never mind me.

"We can travel up to the shadow land without exorcising ourselves, we can transfer souls, and each time we do, we lose a couple of brain cells. I don't know much about it but—"

"Talk to dad." Nick offered. "He knows heaps. He has all these thesis's by Dr Oliver Slaski, who turns out to be my late grandfather."

"Thank you Nick." Mom said politely. Too politely, if you ask me, but whatever. "You've been more than helpful, but—"

"I think your being stupid." Stacy interrupted, having decided to join the conversation.

"Umm, excuse me," I said bitchily, "Shut up, dead girl."

. . . I was still a littler snarky over the whole Slater fraternization thing.

"You might be wrong about Slater senior," she said, ignoring me. "Sure he's a arrogant and a bit of a ass, but he helped me. I couldn't go to anyone else, and he sounded genuinely worried when I said your family was in danger."

"Of course," agreed Dad, humorlessly.

"Don't take this the wrong way Mr. de Silva, but I think you're a little prejudiced. Suze is right. He's not exactly going to win any humanitarian awards, but he didn't strike me as too bad."

Dad forced a half smile. "I'm sure he was very eager to help you, once he realized whose daughter you were associated with."

"Give it a rest dad." I sighed. "Like father like son. They seem to both be assholes. Who cares? Move on and deal with the situation at hand."

Dad looked at me.

I repeated it in Spanish just in case there was any more confusion.

Mom looked at me.

Nick looked at me.

Stacy looked at me.

E-V-E-R-Y-O-N-E LOOKED AT ME.

Then Dad spoke. "Si Melinda. I apologize to you and young Stacy."

Notice how he ignored Nick?

Nice.

Mom looked happier now.

Stacy did too, now she thought we were all going to pack up and run away from her ghostie.

--Wrong, but whatever.

Nick was the only one that didn't look too pleased. But meh. Who cares about him.

"Anyway, back to what I was saying before Melinda." Nick grinned at me.

I narrowed my eyes and said, "it can wait."

"No it can't. Be careful. You might not know all there is to know about this guy. Dot let pride impair your vision. You might be missing some puzzle pieces."

"What the hell do you mean by that!" I said, "Don't be a cryptic wanker!" he ignored me, turned and made to walk out, but then paused. "Oh. One more thing," he smiled wickedly, and looked at Mom. "Dad told me to give his love to Miss Simon." And he left.

He was lucky for him he did too, or he might have found himself being thrown out the window if the murderous look on Dads face was anything to go by.

Would serve him right too.

_-Legacy-_

**Review time now.**

**Love and kisses!**

**Mariah**


	4. Guess who?

HOLA!

**Thanks to all my reviewers, y'all ROCK. Everyone's just been so nice about my story, so thank you all so, so MUCH! Peace.**

**Disclaimer: **Yeah. If you recognise them, not mine guys. Not mine. If they were, I wouldn't still be going to school. Duh.

**Ha! Here in New Zealand, we're only up to the second season of Gilmore Girls (which I LOVE,) and Rory and Dean are NO MORE! Yeah! I never liked Dean; he was such a push over. He was a wimp. And now Rory is FREE! Bring on Jess. Someone tell me how many seasons there are, and who Rory ends up with! Please?**

**ANYWAY.**

**A whole new chapter! **

**Im kind of mirroring "Haunted/Grave doubts" a little here, it's got phrases and situations that I've just shifted and played around a little with. You have been told.**

**Lookout PFCers / Slater fan Clubbers, a little Paulie and Nick bashing in this chapter. It was really FUN to write. **

**So TA DA!**

88888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888

GUESS WHO? 

"Hello! Earth to Melinda!"

"I didn't do it! I wasn't even there ok!" I cried, lifting my head from my arms.

Arabia looked at me strangely.

We were outside the mission, seated at one of the many tables surrounding the missions beautiful courtyards.

Where I had apparently . . . fallen asleep.

_Yeah._

Oops.

Thank god the guys hadn't yet been released from their respective lunch detentions. Mascara down my face wouldn't look too bad or anything. Alannah handed me a mirror. She knows me too well. I was surprised to see my face looked fine. I could lie about falling asleep and not get pulled up.

Now days I always check up on any evidence contrary to my lies. ESPECIALLY after . . .

You know what? IT'S NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS.

The mass of students emerging from the archway in front of us—most of them masculine—signalled the end of lunch detentions.

"Hey Guys." Arabia greeted warmly as the group of all her guy friends joined us.

"H-h-hey" said Alannah nervously. Males tend to make her nervous. It's cute actually.

"Hey Melinda!" One of the guys greeted me enthusiastically.

"Whatever. Why are you here anyway? I didn't know any of us liked you. When did this change?"

He muttered an apology and walked away.

"Melinda!" Arabia whined at me, "Why do you have to scare all of them away? He didn't do anything to you!"

"I saw him hit Billy Wells yesterday."

What? I did! He shouldn't be so mean to the geeks of our society! Ever heard of BILL GATES!

One day he's going to regret the day he messed with little Billy. I would see to it myself if he had to.

"Ever the humanitarian." Said Alannah, smiling briefly.

"Yeah" I said, "Well, what he's going to have to learn someday is that—" I broke off to scowl at a certain passer by.

Arabia caught the direction of my glare. "Oh that's right. I forgot to ask you Melinda, why was Nick at your house last night anyway?"

One of Arabia's male friends whistled "Nice going Melinda! How'd you Bag—"

"One more word, and I'll shove that salt shaker down your throat." I threatened Menacingly. "And I don't think the 'Ladies' would like that too much."

He shut up.

Quickly too. I sighed and turned my Back on the offending group, Nick and all his little minions, and took a sip from the can of TAB in front of me, as we began to brainstorm Ideas for our next scheduled walkout. I felt a tap on my right shoulder and as I swung my head around to my right to see who dared touch me, I felt someone sit down beside me on my left.

"So," said Nick's voice. "How are you this morning Melinda, dearest?"

I reached for the Salt shaker, only to find it removed from under my fingertips and placed out of my grasp. Alannah the anti-confrontationalist. I turned to Nick and demanded, "What do you want now? Haven't you done enough?"

"No Melinda, quite the contrary in fact. I'm here to invite you around to my place after school today to . . . inform you of your present situation."

Whistles.

"No." I said shortly.

"Melinda" he drawled, looking completely at ease with the situation, "Would you dive in to a river without first checking what might be under the water first? No you wouldn't would you?"

He's right. I wouldn't. But I'd sure as hell push him in.

"This is similar. Your barley scratching the surface of your talents, you have no idea the trouble you are leaping into."

"Whoa. How far did you go with him?" Asked Arabia's boyfriend Scott dumbly.

"I DID NOT—!" I screeched, immediately on the defensive.

"Perhaps we should take this elsewhere?" suggested Nick easily.

"Not on your life mate. Absolutely not." I looked around and then sighed reluctantly. "Fine. Where will I meet you after?"

He looked pleased. "The gates. Be on time or I'll leave without you."

"Whatever." I mumbled.

888888888888888888888888888888888888

I lied. I wasn't going to meet him. I mean, despite ample evidence to the contrary, Im not stupid.

I wasn't going to meet him. I wasn't.

And then I did.

Well I needed to know didn't I?

As much as it pains me to admit it, I needed Nick. I did. And it was killing me.

He pulled up in this sweet little number, it was dark shiny blue, and it looked flash. I have no idea what it was, but I knew it was expensive.

He leaned over and opened the passenger seat door for me. And I got in.

"Hows that Melinda," he greeted me, "Ever think you'd be getting into a car with me?" It sounded like he was gloating slightly.

"No." I said shortly, acutely aware of how we looked together. "Could you just drive please?"

"Sure thing."

So we were in silence for at least 2 minutes, and I was just finishing up with my little pep talks, ' . . . Melinda, its no bid deal, just going to find out what he knows about the murder . . .' And so on.

Then Nick had to be all; "So Melinda, Nasty stuff between you and Brian, Shame how that turned out. You deserve better."

I knew it! I knew he didn't want to help me or warn me! Guys like him ALWAYS have a hidden agenda. Like my mouth. "Really?" I said, my tone acid. "And who'd you have in mind Nick?"

"_Well_" he drawled.

"Oh please." I scoffed. "I've said it once, I'll say it again, I'm not interested Nick. _Not interested._ I would have thought someone as intelligent as you would have figured that out by now."

"Yes." He said, "and I would have thought someone as clever as yourself would have concluded by now, that I'm not one to give up easily."

Oh have I ever. I mean, what was this guy's problem? There are a lot of gorgeous girls at the mission, whom Nick could have with a lot less trouble.

Nick smirked at me, then leant over me to turn the radio up.

Hmm, Pussycat dolls; 'Stick wit u'.

"You look a lot like her you know" Nick said to me, flashing me a smile, then turning his attention back to the road.

"Who Nick?" I said tiredly. I mean, why had I even agreed to this?

"That Pussy cat dolls singer. You know, the main one. You two could pass for sisters."

"Whatever." I grumbled, in no mood for pleasantries.

"She has a great ass." Nick said thoughtfully.

I glanced sharply at him, and I saw him still focusing intently at the road, a hint of a smirk playing around his mouth.

I pretended to ignore him, but that only made his smirk grow.

Someone needs to tell him he's not funny. No really. He seems to think he his and he's all—

"We're here."

Whoa. No, seriously, Whoa. SOMEONE'S a bit of a RICH BITCH. No names Nick.

Seriously, It was HUGE. There was just a lot of this cream colour, right by the sea, huge big windows and 2 FRIGGING STORIES. And this huge frigging veranda framed the whole thing.

It was Beautiful. For some reason I'd been expecting a huge grey glass thing.

**(A/N: I know, I know. Someone need's to tell me Im not funny either.)**

I saw several cars in the driveway, a little red convertible and this big black thing. It was a little intimidating to tell you the truth.

"Dad, Mary and the maid are all here," Nick said to me, "in case you're suffering any feminine misgivings about coming to my house.

Yeah. After all my parents fussing about Slater senior, I was a little wigged out. I mean, I met him once at school, and that was for a few seconds, he just over heard me threatening someone and said I got that from my mother, then walked off down the corridor. I said something to Stacy about drugs and he over heard and gave this evil little chuckle. That was it. And then all that fuss last night?

But what if the maid and this Mary chick were there? By the way, Mary? Who the hell was Mary? Hadn't heard of her before. Nick has a sister maybe that was her? I didn't hear anything about HER being able to talk to the dead.

I followed Nick into the house and was almost knocked over by these two blonde whirls, and I heard a high pitched "hey Nick honey! Just taking Sarah to cheerleading! I'll see you when we get back!" the door was slammed shut and they were gone.

"Unreal" I muttered. Then to Nick I added, "Was that Mary?"

"Yeah." He said, "and the other blur was my sister."

"Mary's not your sister?"

"God not you as well. Mary isn't my _sister, _Mary is my father's current wife and my step mom." He said. He sounded a little sour, which was kind of weird. I mean, Nick's one of those people that just makes you think they have the PERFECT lives. The people you hate on first sight.

"Alarming." I said as we walked down the huge hallway.

"Very. Now, shall we? My rooms up there—"

"Nick." interrupted a voice. I span around and saw a man standing in what looked like the doorway of an office, a man who could have only been Nick's father, a certain Mr Paul Slater.

"You weren't going to whisk this young lady past me were you now? This must be Melinda Simon." he phrased it like a question, but it wasn't. It was a statement.

"Melinda _de Silva_" I said, taking the proffered hand and shaking it, placing heavy emphasis on the de Silva.

**(A/N: HAHAHAHA!)**

"I'm sorry to hear it."

"And what's that supposed to—"

"Will you do me the honour of joining myself and Nick for a drink miss Melinda?"

Wait. How'd that happen, I thought we were—oh. Clever.

The whole rhetorical question thing. Hence we had been conned into having a drink. My Grandfather sometimes does that; he always wants us to try his latest culinary creation. But Andy didn't give of the 'Satan's spawn aura' like this guy did.

"Of course" I said with a smile and allowed Nick to lead me into what looked like a lounge, if lounges can look that clean and still be called lounges.

"Martha!" Slater's voice rung out around the huge cream, plush room, "We have guests, fetch drinks would you?"

Martha must be the maid. She arrived, and I was gob smacked. Forget the grey hair coiled into a bun at the nape of the neck, this maid was pretty REALLY pretty, with short, cropped, spiky dark hair, and a pretty, elfish like face, even if it was marred slightly by a scowl. And an apron.

"And what will you have." She asked sulkily.

God what IS IT with people around here, stating their questions instead of asking them? IT WAS A LITTLE BIT IRRITATING TO TELL THE TRUTH.

"Irish spring water for me," said Slater, "Melinda? Nick?"

"Im fine." I said quickly.

"Melinda," he said with a drawl just like Nick's, "I insist. Diet coke like your mother?"

"TAB if you have it." I said to the snotty looking maid.

My mother's the Diet coke-addict. Personally I prefer Tab. But it beats me how Slater even knew about Mom and her Diet coke.

"Sprite." Said Nick.

The Maid left to go and get the drinks, "God," I said abruptly to Nicks father, "What the hell is her problem?"

Slater smiled, eyes glinting, "Martha's a . . . friend of mine. Im helping her . . . _kick-start_ her career."

Something told me there was more to it than that. My mind immediately jumped to blackmail stories and murder cover-ups.

This was crazy. All this pleasant crap. It was pointless. So I decided to jump right in. "So, Slater. What do you want, and I swear to gad make any remark about the weather—"

"Now Melinda, I'm just eager to get to know Suze Simon's only daughter. Is that so wrong of me? Im sure your mothers told you how . . ._ close _we were as teens."

"Not really." I said nonchalantly, and then, knowing it would probably irritate him I said, "in fact, she mentioned you once only to say how you were a user and a psychopath."

It didn't. He only smirked.

"Same old Suze Simon then."

"Not quite. She's married now. Her last Name is de Silva."

And still, he just sat there teasingly, taunting me with ice blue eyes. He really was handsome. It was just pissing me off how I couldn't get anything other than a smirk or a cool smile out of him.

"My mistake. How is Jesse? Wishing me dead as usual?"

Huh? Dad wants this guy dead? That's not very nice of him. It's wrong to want to kill people. But as this was Paul Slater;

BRILLIANT.

"I'm not sure, he and Mom are very much still in love, they've been married 18 years, and still act like newlyweds. I don't think he cares any more."

THERE! Just a flash! Something like resignation! Either that or he choked, I DON'T KNOW!

"Sure." He said calmly, making me believe the resignation had been a figment of my imagination. "Now, if the good father is correct, you recently found out about your shifter abilities . . .? "

"Yes." I said shortly, not exactly sure where this was going.

"And Nick brought you back here to show you some old thesis's written by his late grandfather Dr Oliver Slaski. Am I right."

Again with the question/statement thing! He KNEW he was right, why bother even asking?

"Yes.' I repeated.

"So you need Nick. However much you may pretend otherwise. I bet Nick had to really _persuade_ you to come over here, because you're too stubborn to admit how you really feel, and you'll just keep on denying it." He smiled at me, "Am I right?"

"No!" I burst indignantly, "And what do you mean 'how I really feel', wouldn't I be a better judge of how_ I _feel rather than you?"

"But I know who's daughter you are Melinda. I know your Mother well, and you're a lot like her." He looked at Nick, "And Im willing to bet that the current situation between yourself and Nick is similar to that of myself and Suze a few years ago."

"You mean Mom used to hate your guts too?" I said innocently, not missing a beat.

I knew what he was implying. A lot more things make sense now, but I wasn't going to let him know that.

"No. You know what I mean."

There goes that strategy. I wonder if my 'look something shiny!' line still holds any punch? Although it was getting a little ridiculous when that was my last resort.

I got to my feet and started searching for my handbag.

"OK. As _lovely_ as this chat has been I need to go now. So I bid you all—"

"Melinda." Slater chided, "Wouldn't it be a better idea to get what you came for?"

"You want to know what I came here for? I came here because Nick INSISTED I heard what he had to say, that I was in supposedly in danger, and because I don't exactly want my FRIENDS knowing I can see and speak to the DEAD, I don't want my mother to FLIP out at the thought of me being in that so called danger, and I don't want my father to THROW NICK OUT A WINDOW, I came here."

"See? You must like Nick a little or else you would have let him." Sais Slater, sounding a little bit triumphant.

"This is INSANE! You are IMPOSSIBLE—!"

"Melinda, sit down." Said Nick.

"No. As soon as I find my handbag I will be out of here—" I broke off as Nick held up my Handbag.

"Give me my bag."

"No."

"_Nick_."

"No."

"WHAT THEN?"

"I didn't want you around here so my father could torment you—"

"Oh well THAT worked out nicely didn't it!"

"You really are in trouble, you need to know, well, things that you don't know now. I didn't know dad would decide to hold old grudges—" Nick stood up and took one of my hands in his.

"Fine. What. Say what you have to say, then let me go, or I'll hit you." I said, wrenching my hands out of his.

"It's not that simple Melinda, I cant just—"

"I'll hit you hard."

"Be reasonable Melinda!"

"Im being perfectly reasonable! It's you who's still hanging on to my bag, refusing to let me leave!"

"You cant just make thing's simple can you?" he said angrily.

More fool for him. He has NO IDEA how hard I can hit. Although, Im pretty sure he could hit just as hard. But I'll just have to take my chances then wont I?

"Letting me have my bag would be PERFECTLY SIMPLE thank you very much!" I snapped back at him.

"Listen to me Melinda."

"I already told you! Just say it!"

"I cant just TELL you how yo use your Shifter abilities!"

"My shifter abilities?" I said Blankly, "As in power? Well why didn't you SAY SO!"

Nick let out a frustrated groan.

"¡el su cruzar para un muchacho de contusión!" I said angrily.

"Melinda I cant speak Spanish!"

"I know that! So that's just too damn bad for you!" I said triumphantly. Petty I know, but I loved insulting Nick and watching him try to figure out which insult I was using today.

Pity my victory was to be so short lived. I'd completely forgotten about Nicks father. And even if I had remembered, I didn't know that he could speak Spanish.

"Nick," said Slater, "I'd watch out for her if I were you son, she just told you, in Spanish, that you were cruising for a bruising."

Busted. Cliché? Absolutely. But entirely relevant.

I muttered at Nicks father, "Asno-de-gato."

"I heard that too Melinda. And you shouldn't tell future boyfriends fathers that they are jackasses, it might start you off on the wrong foot, and if you want to date my son im afraid you have to be nice to me."

He couldn't be serious. The Bitch! He was only translating everything I said so Nick could understand, Speaking of which . . .

"Oh really? Well I DON'T want to 'date' your son ok? In fact I would like nothing more than if your son was to drop off the face of the earth."

Slater Senior looked at Slater Junior, and said sardonically "Young love."

I just stood there, astonished, until coming to my senses; I grabbed my bag off an unsuspecting Nick and stormed out.

Passing on my way, the Maid Martha, smoking and tipping what looked like cigarette ash into Slater Seniors Irish water. I paused, and then grinned at her. She saw that I'd spotted her and she winked back.

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"Im home!" I called, just in case anyone else was. No one.

Alannah and Arabia followed me upstairs, as I'd managed to strand myself just down the road from Nicks, on seventeen-mile drive.

I called Alannah to come and pick me up, and she brought Arabia. They pulled up outside this café, the sea mist café I think it was called, where this rude bartender, whose nametag said 'Jorge', practically threw me out after scathingly allowing me to use the payphone. Seriously. I don't know why the world has to be populated with so many unpleasant people, I really don't. It takes a lot more effort to frown than it does to smile.

My kindergarten teacher said so.

When Alannah pulled up, she and Arabia found it entirely necessary to have a good laugh at me, which surprisingly, made me feel better.

I don't know how that worked.

But I felt about 20 times more cheerful getting out of that car than I did getting into it.

I pushed open my bedroom door and almost jumped out of my skin. Stacy was there, sitting out on my balcony, hovering just off the rail and swinging her legs. I jumped about a foot more when Arabia slammed the door behind me.

"Oh my god, cant you give me a little warning!" I shrieked at Stacy.

"Sorry," said Arabia confusedly, thinking I was talking to her.

Oh Dear. This had the potential to turn out extremely badly.

"Uh yeah. So um, have you guys heard that new song from . . . JoJo! What's it called . . . oh I know! Its 'leave! Get out!' But im sure um, JoJo meant it in the nicest um, way possible – "

"No Melinda. I've been thinking about this and I want you to tell them." Said Stacy.

"WHAT?" I asked incredulously, "Oh im _glad _you have unlimited leisure time in which to puzzle this out, but its not actually your ass on the line!"

"What are you on about Melinda?" asked Alannah nervously.

"Nothing Lana. I just had a thought, why don't we have go turn on the TV? DOWNSTAIRS."

I shot Stacy a warning glance and turned for the doorway, only to find _her_ materialise in front of me, and say, "Oh No you're not." And then she slammed the door shut, and locked it.

Seriously. Our dead friend had just locked myself and two of my friends in my room.

Goodie.

We were trapped.

"Stacy!" I wailed, "Let us OUT!"

"Stacy? Hey . . . Melinda are you feeling all right?" said Arabia worriedly.

Well, would you call DEAD PEOPLE all right? 'Cause if so, well then im just damn peachy.

"Tell them." Stacy looked determined.

"No!" I yelled.

"Ok, we need to get her to a doctor, Alannah could you--?"

Stacy looked me straight in the eye and snapped her fingers. And everything flew off my dresser and my desk and crashed down onto the floor, causing bottles to break, ornaments to shatter, and nail polish to spill onto books.

Alannah shrieked.

"You are CRAZY! Do you know how long that's going to take me to clean up?" I yelled at Stacy, "And no frigging WAY am I telling them ANYTHING."

"Really?" Stacy said sweetly, and then levitated my mirror. "Tell them." She growled.

May I just say she'd managed to learn her ghostie powers REALLY well? Alannah and Arabia were still staring at the mess on my floor. They hadn't seen the mirror yet. If I could persuade Stacy to put down the mirror, and LEAVE, I might have a shot at convincing Arabia and Alannah that it was just the wind.

"Stacy—" I began.

Arabia turned round and spotted the mirror, screamed as she saw it seemingly hovering feet up in the air, all by it's self. She then she tugged on Alannah's sleeve, and she_—_Alannah—turned around and completely froze.

"Melinda, w-w-what's happening?"

Oh an _evil, vindictive, spiteful, malicious, malevolent _POLTERGEIST is at work! The artist formerly known as STACY.

Stacy grabbed (telekinetically) one of the lipsticks currently on the floor, and started writing on the mirror.

'**IT'S ME.**

**STACY.'**

"Stacy!" I yelled, "Was that REALLY necessary!"

Looks like the games up.

"She-she's here?" said Alannah incredulously.

"You can SEE her?" asked Arabia.

"Is she a ghost?"

"Can she hear us?"

"Is she ok?"

"Why didn't you tell us?"

"Why can you see her?"

"Are we hallucinating?"

"Are we dreaming?"

"Yeah, I think we're dreaming."

"Look at the mirror though."

"Pinch me."

"Ouch!"

"Sorry."

"The mirrors still floating."

"Pinch me again."

"No."

"Don't be a wimp, pinch me."

"Fine."

"Ouch! When I said pinch me, I didn't mean assault me!"

"Sorry."

"The mirror's still there."

"Why is the mirror still there?"

"I don't know."

"Are we going to wake up soon?"

"I don't think we're dreaming."

"We have to be dreaming."

"We're not dreaming."

"Why are you in my dream?"

"You're not dreaming."

"Well then why are you in my hallucination?"

"Im not in your hallucination."

"Yes you are."

"No Im not"

"Yes you are."

"No Im not because you're not hallucinating."

"Yes I am."

"No your not. I have bruises on my arm from where you pinched me."

"You can get bruises in hallucinations."

"No you cant."

"Do you get them in dreams?"

"No."

"Are you sure?'

"Yes."

"Why not?"

"I don't know."

"Ask Melinda. Hey! Why is Melinda in my dream?"

"You're not dreaming."

"So your saying our best friend is a ghost—"

"Yes."

"—And our other best friend can see her—"

"Yes."

"—And you _don't _think this is a dream?"

"Yes."

"Weird."

"Yes.'

"How much coffee have I had today?"

"Too much."

"Oh."

"Exactly."

"Can you get coffee induced hallucinations?"

"ITS NOT A HALLUCINATION!" Arabia bellowed.

"I think you're lying to me." Said Alannah.

I just stared at them. Truly. Arabia was rubbing her arm where Alannah had pinched her, and Alannah was staring blankly around the room, expecting to wake up any minute.

"Guys," I said, "Seriously. Shut up."

Stacy was sitting on my bed, her head in her hands.

"Do you see what you've done?" I asked her.

"It was a good Idea at the time." She groaned then looked up and gently eased the mirror down, and back onto its hook.

"Your dead Stace. EVERYTHING seems like a good idea to you."

'Your not funny Melinda."

**(A/N: You see? Its just one big not-funny world.)**

"I wasn't trying to be. I was being realistic. You have nothing to lose! Ihowever, am now destined for the funny farm!"

"Well they still needed to know!"

"No they didn't!" I yelled.

"Whoa." Said Arabia, "are you, like, talking to her now?"

"No. Im conversing with the EASTER-BUNNY, Who recently changed his name to 'STACY'. YES im talking to her." I think all this had put me in a bit of a bad mood. "Any requests?" I said bitchily.

"Is she ok?"

Trust Alannah. After all this, the first thing she wants to know is if Stacy's OK.

Arabia was more realistic. "Melinda, Hit her for me."

"Gladly."

"Melinda." Said Stacy warningly. "Stop it. This isn't getting us anywhere."

"No." I said and sat down beside her on the bed. "But it would sure make me feel better." And I shoved her off the end of the bed.

"Childish Melinda.' She said getting up.

"Why'd you do it?" asked Alannah softly.

"Long story." I said tonelessly. "Want me to abbreviate?"

Arabia Nodded.

"Well the guts of it is," I said maliciously, "Stacy here, was made to shoot herself by an old fat ghost! Ha! Isn't that NEAT? I bet that's the best camp side story you've ever heard!"

"Melinda." Stacy said quietly, "Don't be like that."

"Whatever. Why shouldn't I be? I mean, you wanted to tell them, it was your decision."

"Don't be mad Melinda," Said Alannah softly, "Its better we know. Thank you for telling us."

"Yeah." Agreed Arabia. "And I swear I wont call the papers."

"Oh you say that now, but wait until CNN get a hold of this."

"Melinda we would NEVER—"

"I was making a joke, Alannah." I said wearily.

"Oh."

"Look Stace, it was _never_ going to be a good idea, them finding out—"

"I think it is, and I think you're being unreasonable." Stacy countered.

"How many times have I heard that today?" I mumbled.

"What?" asked Arabia, "hey, by the way you STILL haven't told us what Nick wanted last night, OR Today. All you said was you had an argument and walked out of the Slater manor. Stranding yourself."

"Melinda stranded herself? Ha, that would have been hilarious."

"Shut up Stacy. You don't know what you're talking about."

"What did she say?" asked Arabia.

"She said leg-warmers were coming back in."

"NO!" Arabia squealed incredulously. Funny how the idea of leg warmers coming back into style could cause her more distress than ghosts.

"Yep. Best hit the mall."

Even Stacy had to smile at that.

"But seriously Melinda, What did Nick want?" said Alannah.

"He can see ghosts too."

What? If I was going down he was going down with me.

"Who else can see them?"

"His Dad and his uncle." I said.

"Whoa. Anyone else?" asked Alannah.

"No-one." I replied. I mean, Nick was one thing, but I actually LIKE my Parents and Father D. I wasn't going to sell THEM out.

"Melinda." Stacy said warningly. "Im sick of lies. Tell them, or I will." She picked up the lipstick threateningly.

So I wouldn't. But Stacy would have no problem with it. It didn't affect HER anymore. I don't think she quite GETS that. But she was only going to do the mirror/lipstick thing again. And really, I didn't need another big Alannah/Arabia discussion.

"Fine." I grumbled. "My Mom, my Dad, Father D . . . "

"You mean your-your MOM? And your DAD? And, oh my god, FATHER DOMINIC?" Arabia sounded shocked. Wonder why. Oh I KNOW! Same reason I was!

What a coincidence.

"Look," I said to Stacy, "I don't know what made you think it was all going to work out if you told them, but that was your choice. All I want to do is get rid of this guy who hurt you. I don't personally don't see the attraction in being a walking side show."

Stacy opened her mouth.

"No really, you wanted them to know, you deal with the endless questions and the awkward looks. I'll just leave you three to chat."

And I pulled open the door and walked out.

"Umm, Melinda?" I heard Alannah call after me, "We can't actually _hear_ her . . . "

"Shut up! Melinda's not in a good mood."

"I know that!"

"Then shut up!"

"But I want to talk to Stacy, and that's a little hard when I can't see or hear her!"

"Well that's just too damn bad."

"But I want to talk to Stacy!"

"I think we'd be better off talking to the wall."

"At least Stacy could hear us!"

"So can the wall."

"Why would you _say_ that? I think you're being—"

"I was joking _Alannah_."

"Well it wasn't a very funny joke _Arabia_."

"Too bad. That's all im capable of at the moment _Alannah_."

"You're not funny _Arabia_."

"I never claimed to be!"

"Oh yes you do, you think you're just the—"

"Oh SHUT UP you two!" I heard Stacy moan. But as they couldn't hear her, they carried on.

"What? What do I think I am? Tell me your not going to finish that missy."

"You think you're just the-the . . . CATS PYJAMAS!"

"Oh yeah, well maybe I AM, little miss goodie two shoes!"

"Im wearing flats!"

"Its an expression!"

"You are so—"

"You're worse—"

"Am not—"

"Are too—"

"Shut up!"

"You shut up!"

"No you shut up!"

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**Another one bites the dust.**

**Around 14 pages too, and granted, a lot of that was bickering, but what would this story be without bickering?**

**It would be even more ridiculous and silly than it all ready is.**

**REVIEW.**

**Yes, all you people who are just hittingon my story, pretty please review.**

**Adios!**


	5. THAT Flamenco

**Hello once more!**

Disclaimer: I have no-idea what I'm on about. I just mooch around with my eyes closed, banging off walls. Well, pretty much.

Oh, and in light of previous and future chapters, I think you should all know that my Spanish is pretty terrible. Really. My friend Jen is trying to teach me, and its like me just going to my her and being all: "Ok, we need to revise insults today Jen." And she's like; "How many times have we been through this?"

And Missy Mee; Jen was the one who taught me how to say 'bite me.' Your Story is awesome by the way.

**Ok. I have a huge thanks to give out for Raven'smylife and Sing-to-the-stars. I love you guys, you're awesome, for that last chapter; I got something like 60 hits, and 4 reviews. That tells me I suck. But the show will go on; no matter how much people hate it, I've become way too attached for my own good. I know. Im a silly, flighty thing. **

**Raven'smylife, Sing-to-the-stars, YNT Gabriela, and Sarah (), THANK YOU SO MUCH. You ladies reviewed the fourth chappie. **

**Im updating for you here.**

**Raven'smylife and Sarah (), thank you for the Gilmore girls info. Really, Dean vs. Jess ? (Or Jesse. However you write it. Y'all know whom I mean.) Really, umm, slim pickings much? What was wrong with Tristen?**

**(My apologies to all the Dean or Jess/Jesse lovers. Don't mind me. Im just way too opinionated for my own good.)**

**Anyway, Readers—yeah, like I have readers—beware, major fluffiness ahead. **

THE DANCE.

"Tell me again why I'm doing this?" I asked Arabia as we walked along the sand on our way to the so called 'beach party of the year'.

"Because you need to go out." She replied for the third time.

I didn't want to go. Well, then when I got ready, I decided it would be fun, a ghost free evening. So Arabia was right. But I wasn't going to let her know that. My hair looked good so I was happy enough. I had it in this loose Chicagoan thing. And I had on my red top, the one with the straps that go around my arm, and then my black gypsy skirt. So I was OK really.

Alannah nodded her head in agreement. "Yeah, that whole Stacy thing—"

Then it had to go and be ruined.

"Don't Alannah. This doesn't affect Stacy anymore. Im calling the shots, and I call; we forget it ever happened."

"But Stacy wanted—"

"Stacy is dead. Dead people don't get what they want. It doesn't work that way."

"Refusing to accept it isn't going to change any thing."

"Im not refusing anything. Im ignoring it. It's my ass here. I have every right to do with it as I please."

"Melinda, stop talking about our relationship. It's supposed to be a secret." Said Nick, coming around a corner and smiling blatantly at me. "Carry on." He commanded his posse, and they kept walking.

Really, who COMMANDS their friends to keep walking? That's just— Alannah then stoped walking to lean over and inspect a pretty shell. "Keep walking Alannah!" I said irritably.

Damn. Just a slip up. Don't read into it or anything ladies . . .

"Hey Arabia," I said wickedly, "if you have anymore ghost questions, direct them to Nicky here."

I was pleased to see him look panicked. "Melinda," he said uncertainly, "what did you mean?"

"Haven't you heard? I said pleasantly, "They _know._"

That look of panic started to rise. "As in _knows _knows?"

"Yep."

"Shit."

"Yep."

"Did you, er, tell them never to mention anything?"

"Oh you'll have to bring that up with Stacy. Apparently she wanted them to know, so she started wreaking ghostly havoc in my room."

"I never should have let dad teach her that." He muttered.

"What?"

"Dad, um, helped her discover how to use her powers."

"Oh brilliant!"

"Don't Worry Nick," said Alannah calmly, "we've all ready promised Melinda we wont say anything to anyone."

"We wont call all the papers either." chimed in Arabia.

"Er, Good. I think."

"But," I added, "seeing as Nick has been doing this for a lot longer than I have, feel free to bombard him with ANY questions you might have! Isn't that right Nick?"

"Yes of course," he said, regaining his composure, "I would be happy to. But of course, you may want to keep Melinda in mind yet! We all know how important a woman's perspective is!"

I should have known. Really. People as _manipulative _and _cunning _as Nick always have a few Aces up their sleeves. Speaking of Sleeves, the polo Nick had on at the moment was looking pretty darn—BAD MELINDA! A faint flush started to colour my cheeks causing Nick to look sideways at me, like he KNEW what I was thinking about his shirt, and the emphasised tan beneath it.

"OK, We have to go. C'mon girls, say goodbye to Nicky."

"Bye Nicky." Said Alannah Obediently. "Oh, sorry I mean, uh, bye!" and she looked at the ground.

"Ditto." Said Arabia Glumly.

**(A/N: I love the movie Ghost. It is so COOL! And I still think Patrick Swayze is hot. DIRTY DANCING is one of my all time favourite Movies. "No-Body puts Baby in a corner.")**

And they let me drag them away. "You two are so STUPID." Burst out Arabia. "You are PERFECT for each other, but NO! You're just too damn stubborn for your own good! He likes you Melinda, ok? He likes you! And you like him too! So—"

"Me? Like him? Arabia what have you had to drink this evening, I'm starting to get a little worried."

"You can deny it all you want, that doesn't change anything."

"Ha, yeah, whatever Arabia. Are you done? Shall we find a spot? Arabia shook her head and Alannah would do anything to deflate an argument so she agreed. Who she was agreeing with, exactly, Im not sure. However, we found a nice little spot by a bank, and up it, were some sweet little stalls.

And sat and chatted for a while. About girl stuff. Well, we're girls. What did you expect us to talk about?

As the sun started going down, more and more lights were turned on, and the spot they had cleared for dancing was getting less and less vacant, and it was a good distance from the bonfire, close enough to be warm when the sun was completely gone, and I mean, I know this is California and all, but the nights here can still get pretty damn chilly. Like, REALLY chilly. And it ain't pretty. Apparently neither is Las Vegas.

**(A/N: Sorry peeps, once again you are the victims of my terrible sense of humour. Im listening to the INXS song "Pretty Vegas." I apologise for you once again having to bear the brunt of my not so funny jokes and remarks. One day I will give up, but not just yet.) **

Scott, Arabia's boyfriend came over and claimed her for dancing, and Alannah's computer friends came over to chat to her about the futility of dances and how they were a 'Pointless and irrelevant hitch in our social compounds' and they didn't take it very well when I asked "If they're so ineffectual, then why are you here?" I got some high-pitched muttering for my troubles. Except for Wilfred, who sat there staring at me with his mouth wide open. It was a little unnerving to tell the truth.

I got up and walked over to a booth selling these scarf things, and started chatting to the girl behind it. What? She was nice. Her name was Lilly, and she was a gypsy. And she had a skirt like mine. And I said I brought it from the designer dude whose name is Carl; he sells stuff from off his stand made of cardboard. He's cool. He's all with the natural fibres and stuff. I like him; he doesn't believe in maiming the environment for the sake of fashion, he says the gods put him on earth to show fashion doesn't mean death. Lilly said her and Carl are friends. So I we were leaning on the counter, chatting about Wicca, nature, and fashions that don't mean slaughter. She was nice. But she still had a cell-phone and was up with the modern stuffs. See? You don't have to be a reject of technology **(A/N: Or would that be a technology rejector? I don't know. Pick whichever one you like.) **To be involved with nature and the environment.

There are a lot of misconceptions out there. Feminists are female cave men who don't shave their legs, witches fly on brooms and make sacrifices to throw up in the sky, and Environmentalists and vegans live on crisps, and howl at a full moon. Sorry to break it to you, but those are all lies.

Just then I got a tap on the shoulder and Lilly suddenly giggled flirtatiously. I knew who it was. Nicks favourite thing to get my attention is to tap my left shoulder and when I turn to the left, he'll go on my right. So I turned straight to my right. Only to find him on my left.

"I anticipated you." He said.

"Ha. Yes, I did notice."

Lilly nodded to herself then giggled. Again. Nick looked up and said to me, "Aren't you going to introduce me to your friend?"

I dearly would have liked to say no, but I didn't think that would have been a good idea. "Nick this is Lilly. Lilly this is Satan's Spawn. Im sorry, I meant to say Nick."

"I said I was sorry about that Melinda." Nick said frowning slightly.

"Yes well, I won't be going to your house anytime soon, so I think were OK." I finished sarcastically. I mean, were we ever OK? OK is not a work often used to describe Nick and myself.

Lilly's eyes widened. "Oh no!" I gasped, "No! Its not- I'm not- were not- I mean Ha! Tell her nick!"

"We're dating." Nick said gravely.

"No!" I smacked Nick in the chest "were not together. Really. We're not." It was then I realised how close we were standing, I jumped away like I'd been burnt. The scary thing was, Nick had been here for how long? And I hadn't even moved, my radar, so sharp when it came to unwanted blurring of personnel space, had like accepted Nick or something. For a moment I'd even taken comfort in his presence. Bad Melinda. Very bad Melinda.

"That's her story." Nick spoke up, finished pretending like I'd done him a horrendous injury. I hadn't hit Nick hard; really, I hadn't put anything behind the swing at all. And there's ANOTHER mystery, why? I mean, any other guy I would have knocked back a couple steps, so why not Nick? Maybe nobody else had a chest like Nick—

I think Im going insane.

"Well I think you're silly Melinda. You two belong together." Said Lilly.

"What is it with everyone today? First Arabia now you!"

"Arabia thinks you should be with me?" asked Nick disbelievingly. I don't blame him really. Arabia is a tough critic. She's very protective of me, like I don't have protective parents, why does everyone feel the urge to look out for me? I am perfectly capable of looking after myself. Well, close enough anyway.

"Yeah." I said to him, "To quote her 'Im too damn stubborn for my own good,' and we're 'perfect for each other.'"

"Well," he said, looking into my eyes "the tribe has spoken." And I was suddenly struck by how amazing Nick's eyes were. Truly. **(A/N: . . . Scrumptious . . . you're truly, truly scrumptious . . . sorry. Now that I've just broken the mood, I'll carry on shall I?) **I was mesmerised. He has the most piercing eyes. Vivid blue. You just stare at those eyes and you can't think of anything else but the owner of these incredible eyes. And I just stood there, in my head going 'Ummm, this isn't good. No. Not good.'

Then I heard a loud squeal from a girl down the beach and I tore my gaze away from Nicks to see a girl shrieking with mirth over something her male partner had just said. Then I recognised the hyena laugh of Cindy. "Oh NEIL! You are just TOO funny!" Really. It was a hyena laugh. High and false sounding. Then I realised how dangerously close I had come to doing something incredibly stupid. With Nick no less.

He didn't look too pleased at the interruption. And I wasn't very pleased with myself for what had almost happened. Although I don't know what that would have been. And Lilly didn't look too pleased that I hadn't done whatever this thing was.

Then Lilly said to me; "I agree with that Arabia girl. You are two ARE perfect for each other."

"You don't even know much about us!"

"I know you both speak to the dead."

Wait. What did she just--? "Oh my god!" I couldn't believe this, Nick was looking Alarmed again, add that to a little anger, and you have his expression. "Is it public knowledge now? Who told you?" I demanded urgently.

"I possess enough of the gift to see that."

"You're psychic?" Nick asked, his tone implying that Lilly choose her answer very carefully.

"I prefer to call it the gift, and sort of. I see auras and little things like that. And you two are nicely compatible. Perfect in fact."

"Oh yeah, Like a cat and a Mouse we are!" I aid angrily.

"Im the Cat." Said Nick.

"I want to be the cat."

"But you're the one running away."

"Mice are smart to run from cats like you."

"You're still the mouse."

"As long as im a cute mouse."

"You're the hottest mouse I've ever seen."

"Oh I'm so glad." I said, my voice layered with sarcasm. "Now, what did you want?"

"Well actually, I was trying to ask you to dance." Nick said, with minor irritation.

"Fine. Ask away."

"Melinda, may I have the honour of this dance?" he said, with a teasing smirk on his face.

"No."

That wiped the smirk right off.

He just stood there, gazing at me, and then suddenly I began to find myself beginning to cave. Maybe it was the twilight hour. Maybe it was those damn eyes again. And the fact that Nick looked hot, like, _really _hot. Like he was Satan's spawn or something. Oh wait. Silly me. He is. I opened my mouth to say god know what, knowing me under the mesmerising effects such as extreme male sex appeal, it was probably going to be a marriage proposal.

"Nick—" I began, but was cut off by a tap on my shoulder.

"Excuse me Miss," said a man I didn't know. He would have been about twenty? Perfectly nice-sounding though. And _so_ handsome! "I've been watching you from over there," he said, gesturing to a blanket down the beach, "and I was wondering if you would allow me the pleasure of this dance?"

Oh ok, you've twisted my arm. Not.

"Why of course!" I said gratifyingly, flashing him my most dazzling smile.

He looked kind of dazzled himself, and then he smiled back and offered me his hand. When I placed my hand into his, he kissed it, and as Lilly started to giggle, (Again! what is with this girl and giggling?) he said to her and Nick; "Excuse us," and tucking my arm into his, he escorted me to the HUGE clearing that was there solely for dancing.

I didn't look back at Nick. I couldn't. In my present condition I had no idea what I might do.

Which was alarming in itself really.

This guy was sweet. Older, maturer, more solid and charming, he was a real gentleman. HARDLY the sort to bomb me with barley concealed innuendos. Like SOME OTHER guys I know. No names Nick. How do you get a hot mouse anyway? Im so confused. Then I remember im suppose to be giving my attention to the guy im DANCING with.

Duh, I knew that.

He swung me out then back around, my left hand going on his shoulder, and my right clasping his. And we began to dance to the pounding, swishy rhythm.

I was in my element. I love to dance. The music filled me, snaring my every sense. AND I had on my gypsy skirt. It just accentuated the picture, you know?

Tall, dark handsome man, solid mahogany eyes (not unnerving blue like Nicks) the epitome of Mr Right, attractive girl, long Black hair, emerald green eyes, pretty figure fitting red top, enhancing cleavage without making said girl look whorish, and black swishy skirt.

I could even been mistaken for normal. A rare thing for me. He was a decent dancer too. He kept up.

"I didn't catch your name," I whispered, tilting my head slightly upward, I'm tall, but he was taller. My chin just rested at his shoulder level. Nice shoulder level that it was.

"Daniel." He said smiling at me. "And you?"

"Melinda. Melinda de Silva."

"Melinda. I like it. Beautiful. Classy. Without being too commonplace. Unlike my own."

"It could be worse," I said with a laugh, "it could be Bernard."

His grimace told me all I needed to know.

"You're kidding." I said disbelievingly.

"I wish. Bernardo is my middle name. Daniel Bernardo Hilliard."

"Ouch. How were the school years?"

"A barrel of monkeys." He said with a smile.

"Still. It's a classic English name. You are English?"

"Indeed. Im a Londoner by blood. Good deduction skills. And yourself? Allow me one guess. Spanish?"

"Close! So close! Half. My father is a Spaniard. My mother is from Brooklyn. Although she's been in California for awhile now."

I left out the part about my mother being a shaman descendant, my father being a mediator, once a rancher in the 1850's, and a ghost.

Im such an honest person aren't I?

"Melinda, im going to ask you a question. As crass as it may seem, I want to know this first—"

Oh god! He just wanted s—

"—Are you and that young man currently involved?" he questioned, swinging us in the stage direction.

"Who?" I said, not comprehending. Then my gaze focused on Nick—no longer at the scarf stand, but now just to the left of the stage, chatting up—and feeling up, now that I look closer—Cindy. "Hahaha." I said uncomfortably, "No. Absolutely not. Do you even know who that is? It's Nick. Nick Slater. I am not involved with Nick Slater." He could probably tell I was a little offended, my voice was cold to cover up my discomfort, and icy. And I'd stepped about 3 feet away from him to emphasise my point. That was a bit of a giveaway. I don't know what my line of reasoning was there. It was important to for me that Daniel understand that there was nothing between us. However, had he asked me to dance a little later, I don't even want to think about where I'd be. But that was something I was keeping to myself.

"Im sorry senorita, I meant no offence."

Aww shucks. He called me "miss" in my own tongue. What a honey.

"_Im _sorry," I said, putting my arms around him once more. "I really am. I have feelings for him all right, Feelings of intense dislike. The Sinvergüenza"

"I don't know the meaning of that word, but I take from your tone, its nothing flattering."

"I _am _really sorry for flying off the handle like that."

"Not a problem. I see now your offence." He said, motioning his head towards them, where Nick now had his tongue in her mouth, and she had her hands all over her. It felt a jolt in my stomach. And im sure that had everything to do with my disgust. I mean what else--? Yeah, it was disgust all right.

I think. And hope.

"Forgiven am I?" I said yo Daniel flirtingly. Turn up the smile wattage, flutter the eyelashes, and flash the green eyes . . .

He smiled revealing perfectly even teeth, and said "Of course. Shall we be on our way?" he said charmingly, reacting to my tone just the way I though he would.

We headed the direction of my towel, and as we were going along the bank, Daniel suddenly pulled to a halt at one of the stalls, and brought me a flower!

I know! A Rose! A yellow rose! I love roses!

I was gob smacked and didn't protest when I was lead back to the towels.

He pulled me back over to my towel, and as we sat I said, "A rose? Why have I got a rose in my hands?"

"I thought it would be the sort of flower you'd like."

"Yes it is, they're my favourites, but you didn't have to _get_ me one!"

"Why not?"

"Thank you!" I squealed, and kissed him. On the lips.

I know.

Well no, I don't actually.

I didn't know it only took a ROSE to make me kiss someone.

I didn't even kiss BRIAN. I mean, we weren't dating for very long, and I just couldn't bring myself to do it. And yes, I did employ the old, turn of the head; he gets a mouthful of hair, tactic. I told myself I just wasn't ready, but now I know the truth. I just didn't want to kiss him.

But I just found myself kissing Daniel. God, I'm so weird, why cant I be a normal teenage girl, fretting and planing for weeks about kissing a boy. Instead, I just do it. Randomly and completely out of the blue. Im so retarded.

Daniel's kiss was . . . nice.

Daniels kiss was sweet and . . . yeah. Nice. 'Nice' is the only word for it. It was none of the fire works that you read about in books, but it was . . . nice. I need a new adverb.

I pulled away and said, "Um . . . thank you for the rose?"

He laughed. 'You're welcome Melinda." He said, tucking my rose behind my ear, "Thank you."

A slight flush started to creep up my cheeks.

And I turned to hide it, and leaned over and got us drink, mentioning he would have to do with Tab, as I don't drink. At all.

"Im not a heavy drinker either. Although I will occasionally smoke. But no drugs I assure you."

"So that just leaves s—" I broke off blushing even MORE deeply as I realise what I just suggested.

"I assure you Melinda," he said with a rouge grin, "I will not take advantage of you."

"Good. You ARE a little older than me. How much?"

"Twenty. And yourself?"

"Seventeen. Any problem?"

"Not at all."

"Flattering."

Just then Arabia wandered over, dragging her boyfriend Scott along with her, and she plonked herself down next to us, and sticking her hand with its bright orange nails out at Daniel, she said, "Arabia. Melinda's Friend, Pleased to meet you. This is my boyfriend Scott. SCOTT!" she chided affectionately, "Say hello! Where ARE you manners!"

"Hey." Grunted Scott.

"Pleased to meet you." Said Daniel.

Aww! He reacted to the attack of the friends with composure and dignity.

A height to which a rare few have ever been able to leap.

Kudos to the man.

"So. Melinda likes you. Score for you. But it's not over until the fat lady sings. Any skeletons in your closet that we should know about? Murder? Theft? Rape? Past or present wives?"

Daniels face got more and more bewildered with every word Arabia spoke.

And I know the feeling. Arabia can sometimes be a little scary.

Then as she reached her final accusation, his facial expression changed to one of guilt.

"You ARE kidding me." I said, daring him to deny it.

He sighed.

"Fiancé. Past tense, it was over before it ever began."

"Oh Yeah? What was she like?"

If he said supermodel, I was so going to flip. Like I need that sort of competition.

"She was a supermodel."

Waaaahhhhh! Once a guy's gone model, he can never go back.

"Bleugh. What a drop in standards." I muttered.

"But she wasn't a nice person. She left me because, uhhh, she turned out to be having er, sexual relations with another woman."

That got Scott's attention. He was too slow to hide the look of glee across his face, and Arabia sighed. "Men." She said. "I thought that would only better the deal?" she added to Daniel.

"I was in love with her. And she didn't return that. Only enough to marry me." He said sadly. Ouch. Join the club. We'll call it 'Played by the supermodels anonymous.'

"So listen man,' said Scott eagerly, "do you have any photos? Like of her and the other Model?"

Arabia elbowed him. Even Daniel smiled. "Afraid not. Its well and truly over now." He said. "And I happen to find this young woman," he smiled at me, "extremely appealing."

"God, if you hurt her I will SO hunt you down and break your neck!" screeched Arabia.

She wouldn't have to. I would have already done it.

And I said so.

Causing Scott to widen his eyes happily, probably at the idea of Arabia and myself as dominatrix's. Arabia smirked tauntingly at Daniel. An action that reminded me strongly of Nick. Which was NOT what I needed right now.

"I assure you Miss Arabia, Melinda will be quite safe in my presence."

"I'll hold you to that." Arabia said.

"Hold away. I would be honoured," he said.

That is exactly what the world needs more of . . . Daniels's.

Just then, Alannah walked over and said, "Hey guys. How are you all?" then seeing Daniel, she said, "oh im sorry I didn't—I mean, I—I'll see you later!"

"Alannah." I said warningly. "Get back here."

She turned reluctantly.

"Alannah this is Daniel, Daniel this is Alannah."

"How do you do?" he said courteously.

That instantly put Alannah at ease. "Well thank you. And yourself?"

Gawd. These two could pull the charming, otherworldly thing all day. Great.

Then the guy who was serving as DJ spoke into the mike, "Heeeeey hey hey, all you wonderful dancing dudes and dudettes! Lets get our freak on, ready for our supreme dancing cooooommmmmmpppppppeeeetitionnnnnn!"

**(A/N: that word was competition for all those of you who don't speak radio babble.)**

"We have a medley of GREEEEAAAAATTTT songs here, pop and rock, tango and more! So grab ya'llselves a partner and shimmy on up here!"

Arabia and Scott were already up, and Alannah wandered off to go talk to her computer nerd friends who were also sitting this one out. I can't think of anything to call them other than nerds. I know. It's not very nice. But I don't say that to their faces. Or even aloud.

We were just in time to hear them starting up the medley so I pulled Daniel up and we were off.

So were Nick and Cindy. Only THEY would be able to turn a medley that started out with POP, brainless, fluffy POP, into some kind of dirty dancing free for all. And they were going for it.

And Nick still looked hot. Damn him.

Even with Cindy grinding herself up against him. I don't know how he does it, I really don't. Or her for that mater of fact. That position she was currently in, didn't look all that comfortable to tell you the truth.

Since it was a medley, they'd just cut and pasted songs, never giving you a whole song, just pieces, its great fun dancing to medleys, but you have to be on top of your game ALL the time.

The first piece was Missy and Christina's Car wash! Christina's voice came warbling out in full, and we started.

Come summer the work gets kind of hard _(come on)_  
This ain't no place to be if you're planning on being a star, being a star  
Let me tell you it's always cool, _cool  
_And the boss don't mind sometimes if you're acting like a fool

Working at the car wash, _oh, oh, yeah, yeah  
_

At the car wash, yeah, _woo  
_At the car wash, _ow,_ said, now come on and work it with me now  
Working at the car wash yeah, said, said, said, sing

Work and work, well those cars never stop coming Work and work, _whoo,_ those keep rags and machines humming  
Work and work my fingers to the bone  
Work and work, keep on and can't wait until it's time to go home, _uh  
_

Hey, get your car washed today  
Fill up and you don't have to pay  
Hey, get your car washed today  
Fill it up, right away

This was so much fun! Good music, good company, it was actually better then pre-ghost, pre-murder days!

Daniel wasn't doing too bad either. He was keeping up quite well. I caught a glance of Cindy and Nick and they were going strong. The judge's eyes on them, they had the whole naughty fascination thing going on.

And THEN, I began working it.

I suddenly circled Daniel, stepping high, and dragging my hand up around him, until I was standing square with him again, this time my arms wrapped around his neck, I crouched down on the ground, bringing him down with me kicked my leg high, and leaned back, throwing my head back too, my rose almost falling from my hair in the process. I could feel Daniels breath on my neck, and we held it for a beat, then we were up, my right hand clasped in his and my left once again on his shoulder, or at least we were, until Daniel started twirling me. Faster and faster, a normal person probably would have fallen by now, but I _loved_ it.

I was just lucky I'd taken off my shoes. I mean; if I'd stayed in the high, red, wrap heels I was wearing, I would have fallen on my ass _long_ ago.

There was just one little snag. As great as my gypsy skirt is, I was having a little trouble with the layers. Or more to the point, the way they were flying up. I mean, sure they were floaty and . . . light, I knew THAT when I brought it, but I didn't think I would be in a situation where said layers would fly up too much.

Wrong. So, _so_ wrong. Dancing would sure do the trick.

There were about three other couples that could actually DANCE, and Nick and Cindy were (unfortunately,) the best out of those three.

Then 'carwash' stoped, and the sugar babes 'push the button' started. OUTRAGE! THAT SONG IS NOT POP! It's just a dirty dancing/strip club music song _disguised_ as Pop. But now is not the time for me to get all indignant. I have a competition to win.

Daniels twirling of me stoped, and as Push the Button started, I began to sashay forward and back, keeping in rhythm with the beat, and the people round the out side of the dancers, clapping. Daniel spun me out, then back to him, with his arms tight around my waist, holding me to him, he lifted me off the ground, and swung me around and when we landed, we really began to make Nick and Cindy look Christian, as we began to twist spin, me practically _straddling _Daniel's leg, which he didn't look too unhappy about,

Allow me to say, even though I was leading, you couldn't tell. He was moving quite well. It was HOT. How many ladies would have loved to be in my heels right now?

Umm, A LOT. So HA.

Now I was glad to see, we had more eyes on us. Although our moves were every bit as untamed, wild and sultry as Nick and Cindy's, we just carried ours of with more CLASS. So we DIDN'T look like strippers. There is a fine line between sexy and skanky, and I think Cindy could do with someone pointing that out to her.

Im such a perra.

Its not like she's done much to me.

She IS a Barbie though.

But she has always been quite nice to me. But not to Alannah's geek mates! Yeah. That's it. She was mean to Wilfred or whatever his name is.

Im just going to tactfully ignore the fact that he drives me crazy with the whole 'well actually, science has proven . . . ' and; 'well if we are relevant to scientific fact the our hypothesis should be directly adjacent to . . . ' and the classic; 'well if my calculations are correct . . . '

But when the kid actually SHUTS UP ABOUT HIS FRIGGING CALCULATIONS, then he can be mildly interesting! Also tactfully ignoring the fact that he only ever did this once, and that was to comment on how nice my hair smelt.

Pfft. There's a murderer right there.

What's he going to do? Push cars off cliffs? Cut my car's brake line? Get me killed by his victim's ghosts?

**(A/N: I'm so funny. Not. Melinda was never told about the Michael Meducci thing. It brought back painful memories for Suze. Memories of getting beaten up by two Barbie dolls in prom dresses and corsages. I see where she's coming from, don't you?)**

Push the button ended and the announcer drawled into the mike, "Wow-ee! We have some hot stuff here! Call me!" he said to Cindy, and threw her a wink. Poor girl. But that's what she gets for dressing—and dancing—like a call back girl. "Ok guys, that was HOT HOT HOT! But now we have to step it up again! Those who got a tap on the shoulder from our beeeeeeaaaaaaaaayyyyyyooooooootiful **(A/N: beautiful,)** judges, will please leaaave the dance floooooor!"

There were only four of us left now. Daniel and I, Nick and Cindy, and two other couples that I didn't know.

"We're in," said Daniel with a grin,

"Damn straight." I said with a wink.

Well duh! I wasn't expecting to LOSE.

I don't LOSE.

What I do, I do well.

When I'm good im very, very good, and when I'm bad, I . . . suck. A lot.

I dance salsa, I dance jazz, I dance tango, I dance the meringue, I even did ballet for a few years, I love the mambo, and my personal favourite, the Flamenco. The Spanish dance.

And . . . then 'hang 'em high' started.

By My Chemical romance.

Stacy's favourite band.

Stacy is like, their POSTER GIRL. She IDOLISED them. She would have made a perfect mascot too. With her stunning, eye-catching looks, pretty and dark, chokers and bracelets, black wardrobe, punk-ass make up and hair, she would have been a shoo-in for the actual BAND.

Not to mention she ROCKED the Drums.

I stiffened as the falsely cheerful music started, and loosened my hold on Daniel.

I saw over his shoulder Nick and Cindy were moving, Nick caught my eye and winked.

THE FERRET! HE KNOWS FULL WELL WHY IM NOT MOVING. HE KNOWS THAT IT ONLY TOOK THAT ONE SONG TO REMIND ME OF EVERYTHING!

Im going to grind him into the ground!

_I_—whoops, I mean _we—_will win this!

I started swaying to the falsely cheery music, and then as it REALLY started, drums, screaming and all, I rocked it.

I flicked my arms up and twisted, resulting in cheers from the crowd, matching the wildness of the music to my movements; I spun around quickly and stepped, in time of course. My shoulder blades were now firmly against Daniels chest I threw my arms around his neck and twisted again, so he was now standing where I was before, and I was now standing where he was. Twirled right, then abruptly changed to twirling right, stopped, and Daniel pressed himself up against me.

What happened next was hardly my fault.

They weren't going to play much more of the song, and it was time for a grand finale. And I didn't have one. Seriously, I was ok, standing there for few minutes; it gathered tension for our big finale, but what if we didn't have a finale . . .?

Daniel must have known the song too. He looked me in the eyes and saw what I was thinking.

Then he just did it. I had no idea. Suddenly Daniel dipped me backwards, leaned down towards me and was kissing me. Furiously and hard, Just as these words were screamed out:

The angels just cut out her tongue

And called her Black Maria,

Would I lie to you?

That girl's not right in the brain!

Then the music stopped. And Daniel kind of . . . didn't. It was when we heard the whooping and cheering and the 'go get her tiger!' that we stopped.

I couldn't show any embarrassment either. I mean, it would totally DEFEAT THE PURPOSE.

And even though that kiss was _supposed_ to be fiery and all, it wasn't really. It was supposed to be hot and all, but it still just felt sweet, and . . . boring?

OK OK! SORRY LADIES! Sheesh. Delicate suggestion, don't bite my head off. God. Mention one word against the hot man and you lot go all Jekell and Hyde on me.

And I'm pretty sure that time; Daniel was trying to give me the fireworks.

Sucky.

But when Daniel helped me to my feet, and I saw Nick's gob-smacked, and maybe a little hurt, expression, I felt the satisfaction all right.

I smirked at him.

Looks like the tables have been turned hmm? Too bad.

I know for me, the kiss may not have FELT passionate and hot, but I know it had definitely LOOKED it.

So **HA**. HA HA HA HA HA.

"Well after THAT little finale what hope have the rest of us huh, ladies and gentle worms?" burbled the announcer.

What a loser.

"loooooookkkksss like we have ourselves two finalist couples!'

It was just Nick and I left. I mean, US, and nick left. Oh and Cindy. Mustn't forget dear Cindy.

"But now we throw in the Special twist!" warbled the pathetic announcer.

Uh oh.

"Our dancers swap!"

Uh oh.

"That's right little dancing cherubs! Our partners swap! If were going to pick the best male and female dancer, we need to see these talented youngsters with other partners!"

Im am _so _screwed.

You see; as it was only Daniel, Cindy, Nick and Myself left, guess with whom I was going to be dancing with?

Cindy!

No.

Nick. I would be dancing with _Nick._

Soy así _que_ cogido.

"So. Madams . . ." the announcer paused, as someone told him our names, "Cindy and Melinda, would you please trade partners."

That would happen wouldn't it? These people must have had a tip off as to the . . . CIRCUMSTANCES between Nick and myself.

I AM GOING TO KILL – "

Wait. Calm Down Melinda. It's just a dance. You will live. You can handle a simple dance. _And_ if you killed the bastard you'd have yet ANOTHER ghost on your hands. That is NOT what you want right now.

Nick walked over to me and smiled coldly at me. "So. Melinda. Apparently your choice in dance partners has been pre-ordained."

I said nothing.

Well what was there to say?

Just dance Melinda. You CAN dance.

I wonder what the song was going to be? They'd done pop . . . and rock . . . now what?

And then the song started.

And I swear to god I almost walked up to the DJ's turntables and popped him one in the face.

Shakira's Objection.

A T-A-N-G-O.

"Shall we?" Nick said, his trademark smirk in place.

Umm how about NO!

"Whatever." I said with cool indifference.

Yeah. Cool indifference my big toe

I reluctantly grabbed my skirt with my left hand, his arm going through my locked arm and around my waist on that side, pulling me closer that was ABSOLUTELY NECESSARY, and my other hand was clasped in HIS other hand.

So . . .yeah.

Nick stepped me around the room, me stepping high, and he stepping smoothly, for the first slow beats.

I was a good dancer. I knew that.

What I didn't know was that Nick was equally talented. If anyone in here could give me a run for my money, it would be him. I mean, the guy was GOOD.

We circled the perimeter Then the Music slowed, then got heavier, more instruments were added, including a little Harmonica and a lot more percussion, and as the sound became more and more polyphonic, Nick Dipped me, Right, then left, I was totally not expecting that, and scowled when I realised he'd successfully claimed the lead.

Well I hope for his sake that he can handle it.

We circled each other, His arm around my waist STILL holding me ridiculously too close for my comfort, I was staring into Nicks blue eye's giving him my best death glare, you know the ' I hope you DIE' one, him staring into MY green eyes giving me a look which I could neither analyse nor read, which only served to infuriate me even moreBut whatever it was, it was intense.

Suddenly he released my waist, spinning me out, and twirling me, and I wasn't ready for THAT either, but much to my chagrin, it came out looking beautiful and rehearsed. Nick Pulled me back into him, holding my leg high at his hip when I put my hand on the side of his face and hissed at him, "two can play that game."

And Shakira agrees with me. Chirruping on about how tango was only for two not three.

I hear 'ya Sister.

Besides, wasn't it about time this song ended? If it was just a medley . . .

OH MY GOD!

THE **WEASELS**!

The only song they play in full, it HAS to be a tango, and it HAS to be when im dancing with Nick.

And my hair was coming out of its Chicagoan thing. I could feel wisps of it around my face.

As I twirled my self out of his grasp, feeling a small tug in my hair. I ignored it and flounced, spinning with a neat trick I learned in ballet, to the other side of the clearing, I twirled down onto one knee, flicked my hands out to my sides in a triumphant gesture, then I stood and placed my hands on my hips, trapping my foot in time to the music, giving nick a teasing, 'HA! I beat you again! Hurry up and get over here wont you?' Look to which he answered, and as he came towards me I saw what he was twirling in his hands. MY ROSE! My ROSE!

I walked back up to him, he grabbed me, and just as I was furiously about to demand my rose back and that I be allowed to forfeit, I found myself looking into his eye's and breathing in his cologne, And just meekly stood there in his grasp. AGAIN! Only this time his arms were around me so it was WORSE. Much, much worse. And yet I STILL just stood there. Waiting. Waiting for HIM to move. I was _completely_ surrendering. That is NOT like me. He just held the rose in his right hand, his left holding me close to him.

And I started to feel a bit dizzy, Nick must have just shaved or something, because I found myself getting light-headed with the overwhelming scent of his aftershave. Was that how he did it? Made the girls go FAINT from the overwhelming—but not unpleasant—smell of cologne?

Well that's just—

Then Nick dipped me. He dipped me backwards, and he followed me down, trailing my rose along my neck, his mouth grazing my collarbone then he stopped, as his mouth was parallel with my lower neck. And he dropped a kiss there. It was so quick and light, I doubt anyone saw it. But I did! And damn! I know I was in a similar position a few moments ago with Daniel, but it felt NOTHING like this. My Neck felt like it was on fire, and considering whom I was dancing with, I was entering the danger zone all right.

A small part of me was telling me this was a very bad thing, and I should run away right now.

But every other part of me argued I should just dance, and to let myself go, just to enjoy the music, let it claim me once more, dancing with a brilliant partner.

And you know what? Majority rules.

So I danced.

I felt myself being carried away, just . . . just, moving with Nick. It was CRAZY. And I didn't even _care. _All in all, it was turning out to be a very weird evening.

Nick threw my rose away, out in to the sand over in the distance, where it lay forgotten, and I span around and ducked down on one knee, my arms down beside me as Nick put his arms up in the air, then we Alternated, me being the one with my arms outstretched and Nick on the ground, we did it once more before we stood up a little way away from each other, back to back, then span until we were face to face—extremely close might I add—and clasped both hands, throwing up our arms together and then both leaning back, hands still firmly entwined until my hands made their own way to the sides of his face and I held it, his own hand supporting my leg once more, higher than last time, until I released throwing one hand up and spun down to the ground, going down into the splits, throwing my torso, head and one arm back, until Nick picked me up by my waist and spun both of us around, my legs still split, I heard the applause get heavier, and I smiled slightly.

Funny how this Dance, which was supposed to be a tango, had really turned into the Flamenco.

I didn't know Nick knew how to Flamenco. But apparently he did. And well too.

Turns out that there's a fair bit I don't know about this guy. He surprises me all the time.

And then the Music stopped.

And I panicked.

I curtsied slightly and went to lave the clearing. Fast. I got halfway through the crowd, and the announcer called me back again. Of course, I couldn't move an inch more, as the crowd WOULDN'T move. I was forced to turn and go back.

Thanks a lot guys. You're ALL off my Christmas list.

Someone pushed me up to the DJ's podium, and as I walked past the person in charge of song choices, I hissed at him (the DJ), "Me and you? We have a score to settle. I owe you a good few broken bones, so—"

I was dragged away to exchange pleasantries with the guy who held a microphone before I could finish my little threat. It wasn't empty either. I could, and would, break every bone in his body.

Lucky for him I didn't get to punch him then and there. The guy looked like he was going to run away, he looked surprised that the pretty girl who smilingly shook hands with the DJ could, and wouldn't hesitate to break his nose.

Looks like _someone_ didn't listen to mommy when she said 'LOOKS CAN BE DECEIVING'.

SHE WASN'T LYING.

I accepted the corny, ugly certificate I was handed, as did Nick, but as soon as that was over, I stepped off the podium and walked away, the crowd flinched and moved, allowing me space to leave. It wasn't until afterwards that I realised the Engineers mike was on and caught every word of my threat.

But I didn't really care.

I walked past a trodden yellow thing, squashed thing lying in the sand, and it wasn't until I bent down to investigate that I realised that it was my rose that Nick had thrown away.

Oh god.

I saw Daniel coming up behind me and I quickly veered to the right, stepping on the rose so he wouldn't be able to see it.

"Hey!" he said brightly, "Are you set up for a ride home?"

"Yeah, Im good, I'll see you later!" I said as I walked off. I just had to hope he wouldn't look down.

"Bye!" he said after me.

Poor, poor fellow. He had no idea what he'd managed to get himself into when he asked me to dance.

You really had to pity him.

**88888888888888888888888888888888888888888**

**TA DAH!**

**I know that chapter was comprised completely of fluff, but meh, what's a little fluff?**

**Love and kisses;**

**Mariah**

**XXX000XXX**


	6. The Final Countdown

**HOWDY !**

**I apologize for my tardiness. It wasn't my _fault—_Wait. Yes it was.**

**Sorry! But acknowledgements accompany this one. So put down the heavy objects. YES, Sing-to-the-stars who sends rabid monkeys after me when I take too long. I AM looking at you!**

**Thank you to **ADDY** who reviewed. Here's the update!**

**Thank you **BBLFL** for the criticism. I guess Daniels not very British. Possibly because I don't like him much, and I didn't put much time into his dialogue. But whatever.**

**Thanks to **RAVEN'SMYLIFE**: I am loving the Gilmore Girls detail. I _don't like_ Jess. Jesse. Whoever. I don't like Dean either. He was hot for a while, but WHAT WERE THE STYLISTS THINKING? Cutting his hair. I now like LOGAN. Do Rory and him get together at all?**

SING-TO-THE-STARS**: Here's some more recognition! Lol, you and raven'smylife are my only regular reviewers, and I love you for this. Yes, I loved the dance scenes too. I – personally - am in the process of a hip-hop dance skit at school. And I'm currently thinking, walking and tapping out beats. God help my friends.**

Y.N.T GABRIELLA**: I like your name dude. I wouldn't know what the Y.N.T is for, am I better off this way?**

CATTY ROSE**: Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you. You have it sussed. My – wannabe – humor, and distinct love of killing people combine! Hmm, sounds scary when you put it like that.**

MOONGODESS0808**: update is here! Thanks to a few jabs in the ribs from Kell.**

KELL**: You Rock. You and all your stories helped me to get a wriggle on. And you being all ' I just started my fourth story. And your chapters are too long. Silly you.' Etc. Go take you battle star galactica fic's elseware! RAH!**

**8888888**

**The Final Count down. **

"Im home!" I yelled as I let the front door slam shut behind me, "So whatever it is you're doing, for the love of god stop now!"

I walked through to the kitchen with the full intention of picking up my bag - conveniently stashed in the dining room doorway, ready for a quick pickup, but I never got that far on account of meeting with a sight I would have paid GOOD MONEY to have been spared.

"AUUGGHH! Not AGAIN!" I shrieked at them, throwing my hand up over my eyes.

Mom and dad, sucking face on the dining room table. Various items of clothing scattered throughout the room.

"Oh My God!" squealed mom, then I heard scrambling, which was no doubt them retrieving their misplaced _shirts_.

"Seriously! I gave warning!" I yelled, my eyes were still squeezed tightly shut, "In case you hadn't noticed, PEOPLE – mainly ME – actually EAT off that table!"

"Umm, Melinda?" mom said breathlessly, "We didn't know you were coming home . . . What happened to spending the night at Arabia's?"

"I told you! I TOLD I left my bag here to collect later! I specifically said—! "

"Alright, alright, keep your shirt on." Mom said soothingly.

That's rich.

"Well if YOU would, then there'd be no problem!" I retorted.

I opened my eyes to see mom blushing furiously.

GOOD. I mean, after the FIRST time I caught them, I was lucky to have escaped lifelong psychology sessions. But this time? WHO KNOWS! I am psychologically unstable now. In other words I HAVE LOST MY MARBLES.

THAT'S RIGHT.

I have NO MORE MARBLES.

Just like that youngest lost boy in "Hook." Toodles. He lost his marbles and they were his happy thoughts, and so he was stuck in the real world and couldn't get back to Neverland, and he got OLD, like _really_ OLD. And then Robin Williams found his marbles and he flew out the window! Second star to the right and straight ahead 'till morning!

Although one could argue that Neverland is no longer the safe haven it once was, owing to a certain Jackson.

OH my god, im going to end up just like whacko Jacko!

(Sorry Michael. _Love _your music.)

Somebody screwed up. I am such a Friday model. 'Lockie Leonard, Scum buster' alerted me to the issue of Friday Models.

You know. Friday. Everyone's tired and lazy and ready to party, so they slack off that day. And consequently their work suffers. AND GODS ARE NO EXCEPTION. In fact, I found out that being a GOD does not guarantee you immunity to such things as Monday-itis and Friday-itis.

Which has to really blow. Where are the perks I ask you?

So really, that fact that I am a screw up can all be traced back to mom and dad.

"You would've HEARD me saying I was coming back to pick up my bags if you weren't too busy—"

"Bags?" Dad said, speaking for the first time. "As in plural? Why would you need more than one bag?"

"Well WHOSE getting all high and mighty now?" I demanded, conveniently ignoring his question. "Just to refresh here, don't you know that when most couples have children, they tend to confine their bed room activities to the BEDROOM."

Now it was Dad's turn to flush.

"You know, in most cultures it's actually considered NORMAL to—"

Wait. Our family is the ANTONYM of normal. . . The ability to converse with the dead . . .

"Oh never MIND." I snapped. "But the table? Please. I avoid your room for a good REASON, are you telling me I can now go NOWHERE in this house now?"

Silence.

"Oh GOD! That is disgusting! Who wants to find their PARENTS Doing It on the dining room table?"

"Melinda!"

"That is," I said, on a roll, "if they don't already hate each other—"

"Why would we hate each other?" dad asked.

"—Or are having affairs with respective secretaries—" I continued.

"What are you trying to prove? Is this another one of your little vendettas? Because I remember SPECIFICALLY telling you to—"

"—Or if he doesn't BEAT her—"

"Melinda!" mom admonished me; "Jesse would never lay a finger on me!"

"Oh, if only that were the case." I said; gazing meaningly at the now mussed up dining table.

"What—"

"Oh." Mom said soothingly, "I see." She turned to me. "Bad time at the dance Mel?" she said in a knowing tone of voice.

I sighed. "The worst."

Dad looked as if he wanted to know more, but mom beat him to it, saying, "Don't worry about it." She said to him. "Guy troubles."

Dad shook his head. "Honestly. She gets more and more like you everyday."

"Ok, this has been fun." I said, not really keen on the turn our conversation had taken, and walking to my bags in the corner of the room.

Yes _bags_, I may only be stating for one night, but a _lot_ can happen in one night. You never know what you may need. I believe in being prepared; 3 King size chocolate bars for any emotional breakdowns, more chocolate for any bouts of insecurity, Comedy movies for recent break-ups, Tragic stories where everyone dies In case of hyperactive bouts due to too much chocolate.

See? I would make the perfect Girl Scout.

Or not.

Girls Scouts don't carry the latest new release do they? I mean, they have cookies, but do they have king size Cadbury blocks?

I THOUGHT not!

"But I have to dash." I continued, "Carry on, but I beg you; at least move to your very own bedroom." I blew them a kiss as I walked out, which mom caught and put in her pocket. Dad just shook his head some more before pulling mom back toward him.

"BEDROOM!" I yelled as I slammed the door once more.

888888888

"And then she was like, 'NO!' and I was like, 'Yeah.' And she was like, 'No!' and I was like, 'Yeah.' And she was like, 'No!' and I was like, 'OH. MY. _GAWD_.' And she was like, 'I know.' And I was like, 'Totally.' And she was like, 'I know.' And I was like, 'totally.' And she was like, 'I know.' And I was like, 'but she's what, size _twelve_?' and she was like, 'No!' and I was like, 'Yeah.' And she was like, 'No!' and I was like, 'yeah.'"

Oh my fucking god. The world has been taken over, by BARBIE CLONES! Who all look the same!

Well, maybe not the world, but definitely the living room.

And they crack me up. No really, they're _funny._

"So what was up with you and that Daniel guy Melinda? He was HOT."

Giggles.

Great. The conversation was now on ME. Suddenly not so funny.

Yes, I was at one of Arabia's sleepovers. Where else would every single sentence, no matter how unremarkably UN-FUNNY, would be met with high-pitched giggles?

Other than a sci-fi convention.

Im sorry I shouldn't stereotype. I wouldn't want to be called a freak because I can see the dead. Oh wait. That wouldn't be stereotyping, that would be the truth.

Sigh.

How depressing.

I started fiddling with the piece of jade I wore at my throat, a sure sign of nerves.

Jade is a calming stone, it has influential powers and helps me keep my head. It was pretty too, a delicate green, a like the lighter version of my eyes.

Stacy was usually the first to pick up when I was uncomfortable as to how much I was fiddling with my Jade chain. Now, being DEAD, she doesn't have to bother with such trivial things. She has GHOSTLY powers. AND she has a jumpstart on THAT thanks to a certain Slater Senior.

"Oh, he asked me to dance, I gave him my number," I said, forcing a smile, "the usual."

We were all lying in a circle in the living room with a huge bowl of popcorn and copious amounts of chocolate in the centre, in our P.J's. gossiping and eating junk food. Well when I say _we,_ I really mean everyone else, I was sitting outside the circle with Alannah, Arabia was dividing her attention between the group and us, and then there was this junior, who had decided to sit with us.

THIS WAY, I could have front row seats of the "And he was like, 'No.'" scenarios.

Shut up. I was having fun.

. . . until this conversation took a decidedly unpleasant turn.

"Bull." Interrupted Arabia. "You _never _give out your number, and you very rarely give anyone of the opposite sex a chance. AND he may have asked you to dance, but he certainly didn't ask you to be his escort the entire night." Said Arabia wickedly.

Giggles at the word 'escort.' Truly, half these people I barley even _know_, they are just – I'm sorry but there's no other word for it – bimbos. Airheads. Barbies. Whatever. You know what I'm driving at.

Anyhow. That was mean. Since when have I ever intentionally been that mean to anyone?

Don't answer that. Escort? She's not _Alannah_; she knows full well the double meaning.

"Oh well." I took a stab a feigning airiness, "We don't always get what we want now do we?"

Giggles. AGAIN. Teenagers these days.

"And what about _Nick?_" Some girl enquired breathlessly. I had no more idea as to who she was, than any of the others. But she had an air about her like I was _expected _to know who she was. And platinum blonde hair so bright and shinny it could only have come from a bottle. And it was so straight I doubt straightening irons hadn't played their part.

I didn't like her.

The fact that she was breathtakingly pretty – in a plastic sort of way – had nothing to do with my instant dislike.

"What about him?' I said a little too quickly.

Botox bitches one and two giggled.

"I told you not to mention the 'N' word!" Arabia hissed at them.

"Oh great so you've all been having a good chat about me? Thanks a lot guys! And what _about _Nick?" I snapped viciously.

They were not deterred. En el contrary mi amigo, they still giggled.

"Well, he couldn't keep his eyes off you could he—?"

"Oh yes," I snapped, "because he had a lot of spare time in between playing tonsil hockey with Cindy, no?"

She ignored me, but the rest of them didn't. I clearly heard someone mutter: " . . . Dancing . . . "

"—And I think the way you two were—"

Oh please don't say Dancing; please don't say Dancing,

"—Dancing was—"

Damn it! But I suppose I shouldn't really be surprised. Fortune never favours me. She never even favours the Brave. She just a B—

"—Quite self explanatory really."

"Yeah, well who asked you any way?" I said snappily.

Collective gasps this time. The loudest from the girl who was grouped with us. She was pretty really, in a shy, timid sort of way. She had huge eyes, filled with emotion, and pretty brown hair. She might have looked plain at first glance, but she wasn't really, she was quite pretty.

"By the way, who _are_ you anyway?" I said getting to my feet. Alannah slowly got to hers looking wary, and Arabia froze looking between blondie and me.

The shy girl with blue eyes stood too.

It was kinda cool. I wonder if I hopped on one foot would they all follow suit? Its like Simon says! Only its Simon does! Or Simon de Silva does!

You follow my drift?

Ha ha . . . wood . . .

"Hey," said Arabia brightly, trying to deflate the tension in the room. "Why don't we—" it wasn't working. "—tell ghost stories!"

I couldn't help it. I snorted.

Blondie ignored her. "ha ha." she said dryly. "You know who I am Melinda. We only, like, went to primary together.'

"Yeah, and I only, like," I said, mimicking her, "Never cared. And let me tell you," I furrowed my brow in mock concern, "Not much has changed!"

More stupid gasps.

"Oh sure, some of us are a little prettier, some a little uglier," I looked hard at her, Blondie, "But essentially things are the same!"

This time I got collective whistles. Well that's something I guess. Progress. Etc. Bimbos are getting smarter.

I suppose it was silly. Me take some of my anger out on Blondie by being snappish and petty. But hey, it was working, ok?

"Cindy was right about you, she SAID you were an unfeeling, cold—"

"Wow! I was sure Cindy was still working on single syllable words! Now that is _great _news. Unfeeling is 3! Wow, she's really moving up in the world! When did this amazing occurrence take place?"

The blue-eyed girl jabbed me. I turned to see what was the matter, and she pointed at the doorway.

Where Cindy stood. Not that that was a problem. No, the problem was standing a little to the left of her.

Three guesses who it was!

. . . Hitler!

No.

. . . George Michael!

No.

. . . Kanye West!

Nick.

Suddenly I was very aware of the fact that I was standing there wearing only red Pyjama bottoms and a black Singlet top.

I grabbed a pillow.

A decision acted upon by many others in the room I noticed. Well, excluding Blondie of course.

"Hey ladies!" Cindy chirped and progressed to exchange air kisses with Blondie and a few of the other peroxide heads in the room.

Nick nodded to the rest of the girls, and proceeded to head towards me.

And I was like 'uh oh' I mean, what was up with that? I knew he was trying to suss out my feelings, but couldn't he do that from the other side of the room?

But what the hell?

It was like that chicken game. How close I could stand him being to me, before I chickened out and backed away. He got to about 2 meters away from the door before I stepped back. Well, stepped back may have been a bit of an exaggeration. It was sort of a jump / leap.

He smiled coolly and kept walking forward. But he only stepped forward when I stepped back. It was like his way of showing that this was my entire fault, and the situation was what I chose to make it.

SLATERS! WHO NEEDS THEM!

The only fly in the ointment was that he covered more ground than me. How _unfair _and _rude_ of him is THAT? Don't get me wrong; this was a big room. Just not big enough.

Fate chose that moment to put a wall in my path.

Told you she was a bitch.

"_Cogida._" I breathed. I think Nick recognised that word owing to the fact that I most commonly use it in his presence, BECAUSE of his presence maybe. He smirked lazily. I started going sideways.

That worked. That was great.

Until I met a corner. Next to a cream expensive looking chair. I had the feeling that my life would be in immediate danger if I climbed that.

So I stoped moving. I had no choice. He did have a choice however. And he didn't stop. His step was slow, calculated, giving me time to fret with each movement.

Darn him.

This pathetic sort of whine escaped me. Hadn't ANYONE noticed that my life was in the balance here? God people. Call yourselves friends!

"Getting hot and bothered Melinda?" he asked coyly. But it wasn't quite his old tone. I kind of got the feeling that he wanted me to confirm what had happened. Like he was going to force me to acknowledge it.

It's not my fault I didn't like his plan.

All eyes were on us. Which wasn't adding to my comfort. Well, except Cindy, she was topping up her glass.

"N-n-no. Ha! Whatever gave you that I—never mind. So, uh, what brings you to town?"

It was like a giant flashing neon sign: 'DISTRACT, DISTRACT.'

"I live here Melinda."

"_No!"_ I said nervously. "In Arabia's house? Since when?"

Then again, Arabia has an odd taste in houseguests.

Nevermind. Why does my mind keep wandering? I have to concentrate on finding a way out. There is _always_ a way out. I just have to find it.

"No, I live in _Carmel_." He slowly, and in a voice that clearly told me to cut the crap already.

"Oh! What a coincidence! So do I!" I said stupidly. And I could still see no way out. I really did not want to bring it to actual physical combat. Forget not wanting to, I doubt I even could. Besides. Nick had a lot more force behind his shots. I've _seen_. Even if I did manage to get away from _him_, what of the peroxide flunkies? Im sure they'd GRAB me with their taloned claws, and FROGMARCH me back.

WHAT? Never underestimate the strength of half crazed Barbie dolls. It could be your undoing.

He was but a few steps away from me now. I could reach out pull him to me from here. Not that I was going to. Definitely not. That would defeat the purpose of escape plans. Although . . . it would come under the heading of 'DISTRACT' quite nicely. But the personnel sacrifice was just too high.

I think.

He looked at me and deliberately took another step. I winced. And he took another step. My eyes widened. And he took _another_ step. We were now so close I could've counted his eyelashes. Not that that ever crossed my mind . . .

Jesus! Why wouldn't someone help me! Instead of just standing there staring with open mouths! And by the way, the whole jaw on the ground thing? So not cool. And Cindy! Shouldn't she be getting jealous by now? This _sucks._ Of course, Blondie looked like she'd like to throw something at me, possibly the wine glass held in her bony hand, but I don't think she had any particular claim to Nick . . . wait. Who knew with Nick? He'd probably managed to get at least three quarters of the girls in this room.

So why wouldn't one of them DO something!

One more step and he would actually be squishing me - and my pillow that I was still clutching to my chest - up against the wall. Not good. I didn't think.

"I am warning you Nick! One more step and I'll—"

"You'll what? Huff and puff and blow my house down?"

Giggles at the word 'blow.'

"Oh shut up!" I screeched at them, turning my head thankfully away from Nick and his hypnotic eyes. "Get your minds out of the GUTTER!"

"Melinda." He—well its true HE was the only HE in the room. GIRLS PARTY YOU KNOW! We could have been naked! Or – or – DRESSING! —Said.

Nick put a hand on my chin and pushed my head towards him once more, so I had no choice but to meet his gaze. It was then that I decide life sucked. And the way he moved, and the way he was looking at me, his whole demeanour was 'no bullshit this time Melinda.' It told me this was not a situation I would be able to get out of by clicking my red heels and muttering about home. Not that that escape plan hadn't crossed my mind.

"10 feet away from me at all times Nicholas."

He scoffed. And slowly and precisely took another step. That one step. The one all my hopes were pinned on. I suppose it was a bit unlikely that he was going to trip and break his leg in the distance of that one step, but I was getting desperate.

Ok. Lets just run through my situation once more shall we? Room full of girls and their pyjamas. About half a dozen I don't like, several I do like, a ton I don't know, and several I do. That was fine. That I could handle.

But then lets chuck in a guy who I believe to be Spawn of Satan's spawn. And that particular individual had my pillow pressed against a wall, and behind that pillow was little old ME, and I could see no way out of this.

"Hey Nick! Look! Something shiny!"

He didn't tear his gaze from mine. Cindy did though. Snigger. MELINDA! Stay focused you NERD!

I was getting squished too. My pillow wasn't doing a very good job I could feel his body through the pillow. And if I could feel him, then I'm guessing it was something that went two ways. But I really didn't need to add that to my list of things to panic about.

Nick had things easy. If he HAD to do this, couldn't HE be the one squashed against the wall? I mentioned this to him.

"You would run away—"

Point.

"—So it's your fault your pressed up against a your friend's living room wall."

Yeah, like I didn't know.

Thank you for that.

But I did notice, as much as I was practically hyperventilating, His breathing wasn't all that even either. HA! He's scared too!

Wait. I don't think that makes sense . . .

Well who cares? Im going to die eventually right? RIGHT?

So I climbed the expensive looking chair that I was pretty sure was going to be my downfall, and shot out of that room, before the henchmen with French manicures could do anything about it, and tore down the hallway and locked myself in the bathroom.

Yes. Of all the rooms I could have randomly chosen, I choose a room with a toilet.

Go me.

But it was still an ESCAPE! Beat that Houdini.

I Kissed my pillow and said; "thanks."

I could hear people looking for me. Alannah would know where I was, so I'm hoping she had the guts to lead them on a false hunt. I heard hammering on the kitchen door.

Ha, nope.

The dining room door.

Nope.

The closet.

Nope.

The bathroom,

Yes! But I'm not telling!

. . . I am so childish.

Then I heard Arabia say "Melinda it's me."

I went to the door and made to unlock it, but not before I heard her say "Told you it would work." And then a masculine voice said grudgingly, "Thanks."

So I slammed the door again and said, "Um, I'll be out in a minute!"

Pity I have this little lying problem.

Yes I am a pathological liar. Deal with it.

I forced open the window above the bath, put the Aloe Vera plant on the sink, and jumped. Taking my pillow with me of course.

Stop being all 'Oh my _gaaawwwd_, bail on the sexy guy by jumping out the window, how _juvenile,_' because I don't think there's anything wrong with liking the nice guys. Which Nick ISN'T. Its not my fault the nice guys who are attracted to me are gay.

Wow. That's depressing.

But whatever. I hid in the garden. That was cool. It didn't take too long before I heard Nicks car pull away. Then I sauntered through the front door and asked a bewildered Alannah and a frustrated Arabia what I had missed.

88888888888

And so that was how it went.

I didn't deal with anything between Nick and Daniel. I talked to Daniel once. To tell him I had a new phone (lie) and gave him its number (Lie) it was Alannah's number, (true) and she was to say that I wasn't there, (lie) and that could she take a message?

There were reasons for this.

A) I think Alannah had the hots for him.

B) I think her and Daniel would make a perfect match.

C) Im pretty sure once he realises what a bitch I am, he'll like Alannah even more. She is way more is type than me.

D) I _really_ did not want to talk to him.

But whatever. I told Alannah all this of course, I may be a lying manipulative bitch, but the girls' my friend.

And I got kicks out of seeing how red she could turn when I mentioned her little crush on Daniel.

By the way, _very Red_. Very, VERY red. Believe me, Alannah turned every shade there was. Crimson, scarlet, ruby, garnet, cherry, RED, you name it! She ALMOST surpassed Cee Cee. Who is the champion of turning colours. Cee Cee handles pinks and reds like a pro.

Stacy didn't exactly approve, but who cares what she thinks. She's dead. She forfeited the right of having her 10 cents valued when she lost the ability to turn Oxygen into carbon dioxide.

NOT that she's figured that out yet. I think she fancies herself as my nanny. 'Melinda, don't do that. THINK about it.' 'Melinda, don't eat that, you'll get fat.' 'Melinda, you cant just ignore your problems, they won't go away.' 'Melinda, THINK before opening your mouth. That woman was NOT pregnant. She just ate too much fast food. That will happen to you.' 'Melinda, you cant just ignore me.' 'Melinda.' 'Melinda.' 'MELINDA!'

And I have reached a conclusion. I DON'T LIKE DEAD PEOPLE.

Hell, I don't even like living ones.

But whatever. Hopefully her stupid murderer will rear his ugly head, and Ill be able to kick his stupid, innocent girl-killing ass down to Hades. Or Satan. Or WHEREVER THE HELL ASSHOLES LIKE HIM GO.

Until then, I was to sit pretty.

We were in social studies, and I, never the most attentive student, didn't really care what Winston Churchill's political policies were. Don't get me wrong, its not that I don't WANT to care, I just can't BRING myself to care.

There is a difference.

But I do remember the funny things the Presidents did. I did know exactly what Winston Churchill said to the woman who said to him 'if I were you wife sir, I would poison your tea.' He said, 'If you were my wife I would drink it.'

And Bush! He said in one of his speeches "Never in my life have I relied on intelligence."

Im sure Monica Lewinsky could attest to that. Of course, he was REFERRING to the Agency people, but you know. Im easily entertained. Small things amuse small minds and all that Jazz.

And Robert Muldune! He announced a snap election on live television when he was so drunk he couldn't stand up for more than thirty seconds without falling on the reporter.

Ok, I wasn't really paying too much attention to the actual class. Just one of the days, you know? Where you're just like, 'I cannot be fucked.' And it wasn't even a Friday day.

SCARY.

I was interrupted from my peaceful dreaming by A loud, "Cinderella! Pay attention!"

I jumped about a foot off my seat and scanned the room for the source. And Cinderella? Who the hell was Cinderella?

"But its not my FAULT." Came a whiney voice from the back.

I should have known. Cindy's always at the—OH. MY. GOD.

"Cinderella," said Sister Ernestine angrily, "Can you repeat what I just said?"

"Pfft. Sure she can sister." Muttered Arabia. "Except half the words are too big for her."

Cinderella.

_Cinderella._

CINDY'S FULL NAME IS _CINDERELLA!_

Oh My Fucking God, her mother was so _STONED_.

I couldn't help it. A giggle escaped me. And by the looks of things, I wasn't the only one furiously trying to prevent giggles. I was just the first one to crack.

The tall one with the crucifix turned to me. Aka, The _Nun_.

"Cinderella?" I said incredulously. "Your name is CINDERELLA?"

Cindy blinked. "Yeah. Isn't it sweet? Cinderella had all those sweet little mouse as friends."

"Mice." Said Alannah quietly.

"What?" Cinderella said in a baffled tone of voice.

"The proper grammar for that sentence would have been: "Cinderella had all those sweet little mice as friends."

"Oh. Ok."

"You're missing the point." I told her,

"Yeah." Chimed in Arabia. "What the hell was your mother on?"

"ARABIA!" choked out a shocked nun.

She was like; "What?" Then, obviously remembering, she said "oops."

But really, 'Hell.' not a good idea in a catholic school, you know?

Lucky for her, the bell rang.

Thank God. Saved by the bell. Maybe I haven't been giving the holy one in the sky enough credit. Then AGAIN, he DID make me a freak that could interact with the dead. So we're even, no?

Check.

None of the class waited for dismissal. No, we all shot out of the class beholding the angry Nun.

Thank you Sister Ernestine. And thank you dad. Thank you _so _much. It's his entire fault I'm in a catholic school. Then again, mom wanted me here too. Probably so all her dead-psychologist groupies could keep an eye on me.

Teehee. Father Dom as a groupie. GOLD.

"OH MY GOD!" Arabia screeched. "How CLOSE were we?"

"Hey. For once, I am completely blamed free."

She stopped and gave me 'A Look.'

"Ok, Ok." I said. But she wasn't listening, over my shoulder; her eyes were wide at some other scene. She grabbed my arm and went to steer me back inside the building.

"What? Arabia, WHAT IS IT?" Far out, Her nails HURT. Think I'm being a wuss? YOU try being stuck in her – Orange – death grip.

'I just – uhh – wanted to show you something."

"What?" I said suspiciously.

"Uhh, my new . . . FRIEND!"

"Oh? What's her name?"

"Umm . . ."

"I thought so. Now what is it you don't want me to see?" I turned to scan the courtyard, and saw them. On one of the benches was Brian. And his friend. Touching. Each other.

Not _there,_ you sick things, but it was very apparent that they couldn't keep their hands off one another.

And this is an A-M-E-R-I-C-A-N, HIGH SCHOOL ladies and gentlemen.

And . . . Ouch.

The thing that hurt most was that Brian didn't even have the decency to pick someone better looking than me. I mean, Brian himself wasn't that fashion challenged. He was wearing a bright blue polo, which was fine. But his 'mate' was wearing a – get this – CARDIGAN. A KNITTED cardigan. On a GUY. And it was orange.

Excuse me, but EW!

And it was a hot, CALIFORNIAN day.

Cardigans are only cool when worn by me. Or people like me. They MUST be accessorised with hoop earrings and jeans. Preferably supertube. If jeans are not an option, then slacks are acceptable. (Black.)

CARGO pants, are not.

And orange is fine. But who WEARS Orange that looks like baby puke? Other than Brian's friend.

So he wasn't hot. That we have established. He OBVIOUSLY had a real problem with outfit co-ordination, AND he was vertically challenged.

Sigh.

That bites.

But what can you do?

So I pasted a smile on my face and made my way over there to congratulate them.

Pretty good of me really, when what I actually wanted to do was break his nose.

Who says Im not considerate?

"So, Brian." I said cheerfully when I reached the bench he and the Brokeback Mountain wannabe were perched on. "When were you going to introduce me?"

Brian jumped guiltily to his feet. "Uhh, Melinda! Hi! Melinda this is Gary! Gary this is Melinda! Hey look at that Melinda! it's a—"

"If you say bird I will hit you."

His smile turned weak.

"Hey what the deal anyway." Said Gary rudely. "I could take the little B—"

"Watch your mouth _Gary_." Cut off a deep voice from beside me.

"Please." Gary said, disdainful. "She can't even defend herself without _him, _the little slu—"

I made towards him, intending to remind the whole courtyard who were watching with wide eyes, just how hard I could hit, and just how much reconstructive surgery would benefit Gary.

But I was stopped. By my: "knight in Shining Armor". HA. "Night in Shining Armor". Try "Demonic pain in the ass."

It's all the same really.

Gary didn't look as brave as he had a minute ago. In fact he was behind Brian.

"What the hell are you doing?' I demanded furiously. "Let me hit the little punk!"

"Just as I thought." Said Gary vindictively, coming out of his hiding place. "She's too cowardly to do anything. They probably planned the whole thing." He nodded in a way that I guess he thought made him look wise and dignified, in my humble opinion, it just made him look foolish. "I told you didn't have to worry about her, she's too busy screwing Slater to worry about anything—"

Once again Gary was cut off. Nick had let go of me and punched him in the gut.

I won't lie. It was good hit. Sharp and to the point. And its not like Gary hadn't deserved it. Thing is, I had met Gary before, and he really was a wiener.

Then I saw Brian.

_He_ really didn't do anything wrong. Who cares if he's gay? All he's guilty of is picking a shitty boyfriend. We've all been there, and I felt I owed it to Brian, to stop Nick from actually maiming said shitty Boyfriend.

"NICK!" I yelled, "Nick, Stop it!" He looked up, and I didn't waste time in pulling him off Gary, I figured hurry up before he started to protest.

"Melinda, what are you on? Can you hear him—"

"Look at Brian. He doesn't deserve to have his partner smushed into the asphalt." I said calmly. "Let it be."

"The guys a jerk." Nick muttered, brushing himself off.

"So are you," I said with a smile, "But you don't notice me on top of you."

. . . wait.

"Please don't turn that into anything dirty." I begged.

He laughed. Grudgingly, but it was better than nothing.

"Go." I said firmly.

"But—"

"Go."

He looked at me, and I could feel him wanting to say something. "_Go._" I said once more, urging him with my eyes. "Whatever it is, can wait."

He looked like he wanted to argue, but I pushed him off and turned to Brian.

"Sorry."

"Um, that's ok. Im sorry too about – everything."

I smiled. A real smile.

"So we're good?" he asked.

"Yeah. We're good."

He sighed. "Im good we're good. Hey I meant to ask you—" he broke off, staring at something over my shoulder.

"What?" I said and turned.

"Oh dear." I muttered under my breath.

A very large chest was in front of me, wearing a very formidable looking woman.

"Come with me." She beckoned.

Well what was I to do? I couldn't exactly say; 'no.' it just wasn't my style, you know?

Well, ok, it was, but in all honesty, sister Ernestine was _really _scary.

You try putting yourself in my Manilo blaniks.

I meekly followed, ignoring the jeers of "oooooooh, um um um um!" coming from the junior side of the courtyard.

"So, uh, sorry to be impertinent sister, but what am I doing?"

If all else fails . . . _play dumb._

"It is Father Dominic's wish you be brought to see him." She said stiffly.

Hey cool. Priests have minions. Who knew?

"Father? Melinda de Silva to see you." Sister Ernestine said opening the office door.

"Melinda. Come in, come in." the Father said agreeably.

I cautiously stepped in, and Sister Ernestine closed the door firmly. I noticed she firmly shut it. Like, slammed it. All of you who thought Nuns were sweet and nice, say hello to Sister Ernestine.

'Hello'? thank you.

I looked at father D, behind a huge Mahogany desk, in his black robes, and looking no worse for wear. I've known Father Dom since I was a young child, and somehow he seems to have mastered a slow aging process. He's getting on, for sure, but not so much that you start whispering in his presence.

Thank god. What would every one do without father Dominic?

"And how are you?" he said pleasantly.

"Depends." I said dryly, "What's the life expectancy of a shifter?"

"Ah."

"What? I didn't see any point in—I, er, prefer to cut to the chase Father."

"You are, extraordinarily alike to your mother. You have no idea how much. You even have her eyes. Jesse's colouring, and her eyes."

Duh. I knew that. I always thought it looked a little weird, you know, Black hair, tanned skin, and then these startling green eyes. It wasn't until recently that I actually discovered I was quite pretty.

And that was WITHOUT Nick's innuendo's thanks.

I managed a strained smile. Don't get me wrong, I like Father D. I was just having a bit of a bad day.

"So you're wondering why you weren't told earlier?"

"Nope." I said. "I already know. They didn't want to make me suffer, Yadda Yadda. Can I enquire as to why Im here Father?"

"Quite. Apart from wanting to finally clear the air, I wanted to check on your mental well being."

Leave it to the Father D. Ignore the trouble I cause, ask me if I'm OK.

Swell.

Doesn't change the fact that I can talk to the dead, am currently lying to one of 'The Nice Guys.' Stopped Satan's Spawn's spawn from pummelling my Ex's replacement Girlfriend, have the ghost of my murdered best friend currently staying in my room, said best friends murderer on the loose, and I have no clue who he is, or what he's doing.

And I really _don't_ like being left in the dark. (Well, figuratively I don't. Literally, I actually kind of like it.)

I think I have to work on hiding my emotions, because I think Father Dominic pretty much gathered more or less what I was thinking.

Bummer.

The priest can read my mind.

That cant be good.

"I see. I take it Stacy didn't commit suicide." He spoke gravely. I suppose, suicide is still a sin and whatnot.

"No. She was murdered. I don't know who BY, I don't know WHY, I don't know their WHEREABOUTS, I don't know what they plan to do NEXT, I just – I just . . . _don't know._"

Father D nodded sympathetically. "I realise this is hard Melinda. Your mother, Jesse, myself would all love to take the strain. But Stacy has come to _you._ If a ghost picks you, there's not much another mediator can do.

"Can I exorcise her?"

"Absolutely Not." He said firmly. "No. No way. I must make it clear there will be NO exorcisms—"

"None?"

"—Without warrant of EXTREME circumstances. I cant say how important this is Melinda. You MUST NOT—"

"Ok, OK, I get it. Moving along . . ."

"Nick Slater."

I flushed. As father D's gaze continued to focus on me – his eyes remarkably clear and bright blue– I forced myself to bring myself back under control.

"What about him Father?" I said, my fight to keep my raging emotions under control making me sound cold, but I hardly cared.

"I believe you've met Paul Slater? What did you think of him?"

"Well," I said slowly "I didn't like him much, But – but I think dads wrong. I don't think he's the devil."

Father D smiled in acknowledgment.

"Possibly the devils _spawn_ . . . " I continued, "but not the devil himself."

Father D groaned.

What, did he think I was the mature one or something? Not I, my friend.

"Give Nick a chance Melinda—"

"Aren't you a priest? Shouldn't you frown on sex before marriage? Because, I swear, that's all Nick wants from me."

"—And you might even find - Melinda!" the holy one sounded shocked. "Nick is a nice young man with a good head on his shoulders!" he chided.

"Yeah. And my names Garfield."

He chose to ignore this.

"Melinda, I can her the bell. You're free to go, but I want it understood that you came to me if you need help and whatnot."

He said no more, but understood, and was grateful.

"I understand Father."

"Do you?" he asked. "I know your mother will always be willing to throw in her 10 cents, but sometimes it might be better to – er – get a second opinion."

Hey Man—! Let it slide Melinda. Let it _slide._

"Thank you father. I can see myself out."

"I don't doubt it. Good afternoon Melinda."

Well that was interesting. I thought, as I made my way through the corridors. I mean, I kind of got the idea that there weren't many Mediators throught the world. Otherwise you'd hear more about them, right? Like, there would be PROOF.

Apparently not. Carmel's just a freak Central.

As I stepped out into the courtyard, intending on dropping off my books at my locker, rather than lug them around, a colour out of place caught my eye. It was like a bright, vivid light blue colour.

Weird.

Oh My God, it's a person.

And . . . What the hell. A PERSON is lying face down in the grass over by the hibiscus.

Um, OK, that's a little . . . weird.

HA, It was probably one of those weird butterfly collectors, thinking they'd discovered a new type of butterfly, I went over to go and see what the hell the were on, a butterfly is – essentially – just a butterfly.

I jabbed the person with my stiletto toe, and . . . No response.

I frowned and tried again. Nothing.

Ok so they were asleep.

But may I ask, WHO GOES TO SLEEP IN THE SCHOOL GARDEN?

At least I hoped they were asleep. Well, they could hardly be dead. I mean – No. They couldn't be dead. Not in – not in the MISSION COURTYARDS.

Then some horrible realisation dawned on me. That light blue polo looked Familiar. THIS PERSON WAS SLEEPING IN BRIAN'S CLOTHES! WHAT THE--?

Hey, um, sleeping people tend to breath don't they? Suddenly I was the one having trouble drawing air.

I shivered slightly, feeling something was odd. But that's silly. So is falling asleep in the gardens really, so, whatever.

I rolled the person over, and it WAS Brian,

I noticed Brians middle. It was all floppy . . . no one would fall _asleep _like that would they?

Then I noticed his Neck. Ha, people's necks don't usually bend like that do they? Not unless—

Oh my god.

I didn't realise the screaming I could hear was me until I tripped, still screaming, I just kept pulling myself away from Brians body.

His _body_.

His LIFELESS _body._

I continued to scream. Loud and long. I kept moving away, terrified. His Neck was BROKEN. He was DEAD, how could he be DEAD? I was talking to him under an hour ago! And yet it's his body here, the neck all twisted and odd, no skin broken, and no blood, but DEAD!

I screamed and screamed until someone came.

"What?" Said a voice loudly. "Who screamed?" he noticed me. 'Hey are you ok? Why'd you scream?"

I could only point, a hand now clamped over my mouth to stop me from throwing up.

The guy went over to Brian's body and felt his pulse. Why didn't I think of that? Except the thought of touching – touching THAT made me want to throw up. I didn't though. That's probably the one thing I was proud of.

People were starting to crowd around, I got up and tried to run, only to bang straight into the wall, I just sank against it, my legs too wobbly to support me. I just lent there and tried to gather myself.

Father D came over to me later, and looking more sombre than I would have thought possible, asked me what I thought.

"A ghost could do that?" I said shakily.

"I see we are of the same mind then." He said gravely. "Yes a ghost could do that. I don't know exactly how, but im sure they could."

"He got the wrong guy.' I muttered bitterly.

"Pardon me?" Even at a time like – at a time like THIS Father d wasted time on manners.

"He got the wrong guy!" I almost shouted. "Why didn't he kill Gary? Gary deserves to die!"

"Hush Melinda. Think very carefully about what you choose to shout to the courtyard." His voice sounded empty and hollow. "Do you want the whole Mission to think you had something to do with this? Its bad enough you found him."

He was right. The _priest_ was thinking clearer than me.

I had sort of a brain freeze. All I could think of was how much I was going to hurt this ghost.

And so the count down is on.

Stacy.

Brian.

Who was next on the list?

**8888888**

**YAY! Another chapter done. Do you love or hate me for killing Brian? Just to refresh, he was the Ex. The one who dumped Melinda at the funeral.**

**Yeah. Just in case I muddled y'all up.**

**Note the lack of author notes Char? I did have _one_, but for your sake I deleted it. It was in reference to Melinda personifying her pillow.**

**Do not look at me like that. I would have named the pillow, but I couldn't think of a name. YES, I am one of those weird people who name inanimate objects. For example, my cell phones name is Dianna. (feminine.) My Saxophone's name is Daffy. (Masculine.) Except when I first started playing the saxophone I had to practice blowing Daffy. I thought this was funny. My saxophone teacher disagreed.**

**Whatever. **

**REVIEW FOR ME PLEASE?**

**Love and kisses, **

**Mariah. **

**xxooxxoo**


	7. Cest la Vie

**ANOTHER one!**

**I TOLD you all I would eventually get an update up. And I seem to have gotten over my sixth-chapter-writers-block, So THANK THE FRIGGING LORD. **

**And it helps that my family has suddenly brought satellite rugby. Which means there's ALWAYS a game on during Top Model and Ghost Whisperer. Speaking of which, did you know that the main character in Ghost Whisperer's name is Melinda? And she talks to ghosts. Seriously. I found this out yesterday. Is Melinda such a paranormal name? I might be on to something here. **

**Anyway. Thankyous. I have LOTS of them. So if you didn't review, scroll down. And I hope you feel VERY guilty whilst scrolling. VERY, VERY guilty.**

** > > >**

Amattsonperdue: **I REALLY appreciated your criticism. It really helps me to get an HONEST review. Like, I can berate my story all I like, and yet, I'm still not sure if I'm just being overly critical or I just put the LOO in Deluded. I'm too close; you have a better perspective than me. THANK YOU. And CARRY ON. **

**Ooh I'm so glad! **Her Royal Highness diamond, **as a first fic, I could have easily scared you off. I'm told I do that to people occasionally. STAND BY!**

**Yeah. I like the number two, **Kates Master2 **and I'm glad I made the list. And as for Mel knowing so much, it's just because of, you know, television and movies. Like, I don't talk to the dead, and I know about exorcisms and stuff via television and movies. Ha, and the Internet . . . LOL! But if you think I still need to tone it down a little, let me know. **

**You're a nice person **Catty Rose. **I am flattered beyond imagination. I loved the orange cardigan too. I was cracking up. And blowing Daffy? Well my new saxophones name is Tatiana. Dude, that's worse. **

**Your flatter me **aD3liN3. **When I read your review I was all, "Oh My-God! She likes my writing. How super!" But that may have been because I have been watching WAY too many cheesy teen movies. Thank you for the feedback, and as for Melinda and Nick, I'm still not certain what's happening to them. I know they seem perfect, but there's something to be said for the nice guy. Who maybe just hasn't appeared yet.**

Callin **got it right in one. My story really is very Mediatory, isn't it? Giggle That's what I was aiming for Callin. Thank you for reviewing. BIG hug! **

**Table sex. Well **Char, **This is my story. And as flimsy and hollow as it might be, THERE JUST HAD TO BE A SCENE WHERE SUZE AND JESSE WERE CAUGHT HAVING SEX ON THE TABLE. It's like an unwritten law or something. **

**Am I harsh **tweedledee11 **Answer: God Yes. Well In real life if I killed of people at this alarming rate, I would be in jail. Or – more likely – an asylum. In stories, I can kill whomever I like. Well, Sort of. I get the feeling I would be at the receiving end of a lot of bad will if I killed off Father Dominic. So just as a small spoiler FATHER DOMINIC WILL LIVE ON! Just like Elvis. Stay away from the fridges Father D. **

Mary**, WHY THE HELL DO YOU HAVE RABID GERBILS? And I thought the monkeys were bad. Giggle . I'm going to have to quote my kindergarten teacher. **"Keep all hands feet and objects TO YOURSELF."** This was usually directed at me. Snort. AND OBJECTS INCLUDE GERBILS MARY. And MONKEYS. And any other creepy rabid beings you may have. You can keep the worms and Squirrel's however. Thank you for the Review, you're so nice to me. PATHOLOGICAL LIARS UNITE! I got some hilarious groupie images of Father Dom too. And my regards to: Pancake, Googoo, Larry, armadillo, Tom, and ye-who-yeilds-the-mighty-spaghetti'o's-container.**

**Thank you **Ravens-my-life **I love that I know I will usually get a review from you or Mary. Does happy Dance. You are so nice to me.**

Missy Mee: **Thank you. Thank you, thank you. YES. I have an update! I know. I myself am surprised. Yes, True friend was ever the cheerful bedtime tale, no? But it's OK. I just have an over active imagination. Hee. **

**THANK YOU ALL!**

**And I need caffeine. **

** > > > **

**Disclaimer: **Go ahead. Sue me. You'll probably get about three bucks for your troubles.

**Chapter Seven:**

**Cest la Vie.**

"Hello? . . . Umm, Sure, she's right here. . . It's for you." Alanna said, passing me the receiver.

"Thanks," I said puzzled. "Hello?"

I was at Alanna's. Obviously. That's why she answered the phone. And why her ring tone was Disney's 'Beauty and the Beast.'

I had plans to be here, and just because an ex boyfriend of mine had been—well I had _plans_! PLANS! And until this freaking ghost rears his stupid head, there's nothing I can do.

_Nothing._

"Melinda?" Dads voice said; sounding strained. "Finally. What's the point in having a portable phone if you never have it turned ON?"

"Oh yeah, I have a, um, a reason for that—"

So I don't have an excuse. But at least my ring tone isn't BEAUTY AND THE BEAST! It's the Sugarbabes. Red Dress. _Love_ that song.

"Save it." he said, "Could you head down to the hospital now please?"

"How come? Are you working late?"

"Er . . .No, Not exactly, Now don't panic—" I immediately started to panic, "—but your mothers been admitted."

"WHAT? _Why?_" I said jumping up, unseating Alanna's Tabby. Which made for a rather unhappy cat, but who cared. My MOTHER was in the HOSPITAL.

"She – she tripped and fell out the window."

"Well, is she OK?"

"Not exactly. She's broken her Collarbone."

"_WHAT_?"

"She should be OK," he assured me.

"She fell out the window." I repeated.

"Well, not the window exactly . . .But . . . Some French doors."

French Doors? What French doors? We don't have any—The ones in my room.

And it hit me. No, it really hit me. None of this little tapping business, but so hard I almost fell over. Which, probably made me look like I was stoned, but whatever. PRIORITIES you know?

"_Dios_, I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Gracias."

I hung up and was straight away bombarded by Alanna. "What's the matter?" She asks frantically.

I can understand why she looked so scared. I jumped into action, hurrying around the room, grabbing, my bag, fumbling in it and turning my phone ON.

"Moms in Hospital." I said shortly. "Can I borrow your car?"

"NO! I mean - yeah, sure you can borrow—YOUR MOM IS IN HOSPITAL?"

"YES!" I shouted at her, my fight to stay calm escaping me, "And now is not the time to have a panic attack! I need you to tell me where your KEYS ARE, NOW!"

She stopped. Closed her eyes. And told me the keys were in the pocket of her blue wrap. "But I'm coming with you." She said, her eyes flying open.

"WHATEVER! But can you MOVE IT?"

She hurried up the stairs and came back with her keys. "I think I'd better drive."

I didn't deny it. Even when she is hysterical, Alanna is still a way better driver than me. Dad is constantly reminding me that I'm not driving a formula one race. So perhaps Alanna was safer, but I'm god damn faster! I've watched faster SNAILS, I swear to the goddess.

"GO!" I urged.

At least I have somewhere to start. I thought as I buckled myself in. Even though that isn't much comfort. I would never forgive myself if Mom were hurt. Like, REALLY BADLY HURT. How could he do this though? If he wanted to mentally hurt ME, he couldn't have done a finer job, but involving other people just to hurt ME?

I don't know, maybe I was being vain in thinking this was all because of me.

Maybe this was all a coincidence; maybe Mom really did trip out the window.

I just doubt it somehow. My mom can do some stupid things, and have some really _terrible _plans, but she's not stupid.

I mean, in my room I have these huge great French doors, they're panelled, and they're really pretty and all, but I suppose they are a little dangerous, that's why they're always locked, with the key hidden high up behind the curtains. And then there's a BALCONY out there anyway!

Its reasonably big too, so how could she just '_fall_' over that? And what could she possibly trip over that would give her enough momentum to both smash the wood—glass I understand would break quite easily, but on my doors there's more wood than there is glass—and carry her across the balcony and THEN tip her over the safety rails?

Im no scientist, but even I know that just wouldn't work. There's no way she could fall across / through all that.

SO: what could she possibly fall over that would give her enough force for that? IT WOULDN'T WORK.

Excluding, of course, a _force_ that was constantly applied. Eg, a push, or _ghostly_ force.

That would sure do the trick.

So you see, the whole 'accident' theory just doesn't add up. If she's SERIOUSLY hurt— I thought as Alanna rounded a bend with particular vengeance. Unusual for her. But then, She likes my mom.

Everyone likes my mom. She – mom – doesn't even know why. Everyone else does though. I see it. Dad sees it. BRAD – her stepbrother, an individual with intelligence akin to that of a TROLL – even sees it. Perhaps that's why he's so _bitter. _

Dad said it was _just_ mom's Collarbone that was damaged, but he might have been downplaying things. Parents have a tendency to do that I've noticed. Try to '_protect' _you, when all there really doing is making it worse.

We pulled into Carmel hospital; I'd been here before because of Dad and all, but never to see someone who was in here BECAUSE OF ME.

Just F.Y.I, It's a _really_ bad feeling.

"Um, hi, do you know which room Susannah de Silva is in please?" The nurse behind the desk whose nametag read 'SAM.' Looked up at me blankly.

"Susannah. De. SILVA." I growled. Alanna tugged on my arm, trying to get me to be nicer to the nurse.

"OH!" Said the Nurse, perking up. "That's Dr de Silva's – _Wife_." She said, her cheery tone turning decidedly nasty as she said the word; 'Wife'.

"_No_, it's his mother." I snapped.

"Really?" she said, brightening.

"NO! Would you just tell me which room she's in please?"

"I'm sorry miss," she began monotonously. "Only direct family members are allowed—"

"Im her DAUGHTER!" I snapped, dangerously close to losing it. HELLO! MOM! IN HOSPITAL!

"Im sorry but only immediately related family are allowed to see Miss de Silva." She smiled toothily. "Its hospital Policy."

"You can take you're policy an—"

It was no good. She just smiled vacantly at me, apparently not comprehending the link between a mother and child.

Apparently I was going to have to clarify. Gently of course. I wouldn't want to scare her.

"A daughter IS an immediate relation!" I bellowed.

"You're her daughter? Well that's different! You must be Melinda."

"YES." I said breathing heavily. "Can you please tell me which room my mother is in?"

"Do you remember me Melinda? You were only _this _high when we last met—"

"Tell me. Where. My mother is. Or I will have you FIRED." I said in a threatening voice.

"Umm," said the suddenly co-operative nurse, checking the computer. "Room 101."

I turned, heading to room 101. Which was like the recovery block. Thank god. If she were still in the critical rooms, I would probably have hit 'Sam'.

Seriously though, HOW BRIGHT DO YOU HAVE TO BE? As for getting her fired? Dad would be all for giving 'Sam' another chance. Dr Rys though, he might listen to me. He'd even chuck her out under dad's name. Mostly, I think because he has the hots for mom.

It's a twisted, _twisted _world.

"Have a nice day!" she had the nerve to call after me.

"Mom?" I said, knocking on the door of room 101.

"Come in." said Dads voice.

I pushed open he door and walked in. The room was OK for a hospital. It was a single room, pretty big, and not as 'ICK' as it could have been.

Advantage to being married to a Doctor, you get the best rooms.

Bonus.

"Hey Melinda." Mom said from the hospital bed. It was just she and Dad in there, and she didn't look too bad. Except for the giant SLING and all the DRIPS and other paraphernalia. _Yeah_. Its kind of hard to pretend everything is fine when there is NEEDLES in your MOTHER.

All together now. Say cheese. Yep, we'll send _that_ to Aunty Gertrude.

"In the name of the Kyprioth" I muttered. "This is the last time, de basté redo." Dad didn't scold me. Once again, it was a mark of the situation.

"Hey, I'm OK!" Mom smiled up at me, Alanna having stayed out in the corridor. "An I will swear to whichever god it was that you just cursed, that I am FINE."

"Kyprioth." I muttered shamefacedly. "The trickster."

Fits that the first god I'd call on would be the trickster, right? _So _typical of me.

"And I'm willing to wager with the Graveyard Hag you didn't _fall_" I piled on the sarcasm, "Off my balcony."

"Im going to let the bit about the Graveyard Hag slide," Mom said, "Just let me remind you to LEAVE THE GODS ALONE. Gods have twisted senses of humour. You never know what they're going to do, I'M still wanting to know what the hell it was that I did, so as to land me with this shifter crap."

Fair Point. The Graveyard hag might sic her rats on me. And I don't like rats. I don't like them almost as much as they don't like me.

"So." I encouraged. "Balcony . . . fall . . . HOSPITAL . . ." Mom fidgeted slightly. "AND," I added to dad, "What is with that stupid NURSE?"

"Oh. Sam." He explained wearily. "Trainee."

He knew straight away which one I was talking about, which led me to believe I'm not the first to complain. Probably not the hundredth, even. And I doubt I will be the last. Idiotic woman.

"Back to topic. You did not FALL."

I was so sure mom didn't fall that, as I said before, I'd wager with the Graveyard Hag, who ALWAYS cheats, She has weighted die, so she never loses. Oh, and she's a GOD.

Sometimes that can sort of, throw the balance in your favour.

Apart from that I like gods. I don't understand why people just pick one to believe in, and then slander the ones other people pick.

I pick them ALL.

See? That makes me smarter.

"You're not going to be distracted." Dad sighed. "Fine. As you well know, your mother did not _fall_ in the slightest. She was _thrown. _By a spirit who she was trying to HELP"

It was clear from dad's tone that he wasn't going to let this slide. He definitely felt he owed our ghost a broken collarbone in return. Ditto dad. Ditto. Lets add things up shall we?

First Complaint: He murdered Stacy and made it look like a suicide.

Second: He Murdered Brian and made it look like he died due to some stupid blunder of his own, like he just _tripped _and broke his neck.

Third: He throws my mother off a balcony so she breaks her collarbone.

Yeah, I definitely DON'T LIKE THIS GUY. I mean to say, WHO THROWS PEOPLES MUMS OFF BALCONIES? WHAT SORT OF HICK MORALITY—Breathe in. Breathe out.

Trust mom to be trying to help him. And he throws her out a window for her troubles. What a—

"Wait. Help? Mom, what were you doing?"

"Your dear _mother _decided it would be a good idea to—" dad started peevishly. I guessed it was a well-exercised topic. Probably what they were arguing about short of the moment I walked in. "Try and—"

"Oh cut the bullshit Jesse." Mom interrupted. "I found your little ghost Mel. And I told him I would exorcise the shit out of him if he came near my daughter ever again."

"Huh. Way to say it straight up Mom."

"I don't think he liked that much." She winced as she readjusted herself, batting Dad away as he tried to help her. "In fact, I'm sure of it."

"Fuck I _hate _this guy." I probably should have said it in Spanish, but either way dad would understand whatever profanity I used, so mom might as well be in on it too.

Mom nodded her agreement but dad just managed to choke out a strangled, "Melinda!"

"Va el retén un pollo papa."

"MELINDA!" Dad exclaimed.

"What?" Questioned mom interestedly. "What? What did you tell him to do?"

"I told him to go catch a chicken."

Mom giggled. "Ha. You got told to go catch Poultry by your seventeen-year-old daughter! Hahahaha—"

"Susannah."

"What? I'm just lightening the mood."

See? Mom sees the funny side. Too bad for dad. Hee, I rhyme. Well, not really. And considering mom was the one in the hospital bed, she was looking happier than the grumpy looking dude beside her.

"But wait!" I said, doing my best TV salesman impression. "There's more!"

"Uh Oh" mom said.

"Uh Oh' sums it up nicely. As you might be unaware—" ha. _unaware_. I bet. I've seen how dad gets when something happens to mom. 'Oh _Querida_ . . .' I bet dad had been way too busy checking if the inside of moms mouth was still functional to worry about murder at their daughters school. Well, that would have been before dad got all chivalrous over the reason mom found herself airborne. "—You were not the only one who met an unfortunate event today."

Sure. 'Unfortunate event.' This could put Lemony Snickett out of business. Poor, poor children: Violet, Klaus and Sunny. Then Melinda, and all her significant others.

Charlie.

Maurice.

Tim.

Allie.

Maude.

Chenaol.

Dwayne.

Melissa.

Stella.

Jordan.

I could go on.

But instead of listing all my schizophrenic alter egos, I could try easing poor mom and dad's minds. Dad looked tense enough already.

And mom had bypassed her usual creamy completion to head for a more . . . pasty shade.

"You remember Brian?" I asked.

"That the dude who, is, umm, Batting for the other team?" Mom questioned delicately.

"Yep."

'Wait one moment. That the one that was so cruel as to end thing with you at Stacy's funeral?" Dads said disdainfully. As if to say 'He's not worth it . . .' without, you know, the extra serving of corn.

Because NOBODY like corn. ESPECIALLY not creamed. EWW.

"Err, essentially, yes." I said with a nod.

"What's wrong with him? Oh My. He's got a boyfriend hasn't he? And the new boyfriend isn't even hotter than you. I knew it. Its OK babe—"

Trust Mom to guess such a thing. Too bad she's right. She just has to get to the bit about his murder. Then she'll be all caught up.

"—WHAT an ass. There will be others hon. I mean, look at you. Of COURSE there will be others—"

"Thanks for the vote of confidence ma, but No. That's not it."

She has to say that. She's my mom. And she's a pretty nice person. Its not like she's going to say 'OH MY GOD? THAT CAN'T BE MY DAUGHTER! GET HER OUT OF MY SIGHT! WHAT AN EYESORE!'

She's not like that.

"Then what it?" she says, sounding more than a little apprehensive.

"Well I mean, Gary ISN'T hotter than me, Like, he REALLY isn't hotter than me, and that's just _ouch, _and I mean to say, an orange cardigan? What the hell? But whatever, I mean—" Rambling? Not I. "—yeah, that hurts and all, but you know, beauty is only skin deep, and its what's on the inside that really matters—"

"Melinda."

"But the first thing you notice on a person IS the outsides, I mean, if it was the insides you saw first, everyone would be like, 'EWWW!' because who wants to greet a bunch of blood and guts? That would be scary. And—"

"Melinda."

"I know I should be worrying about things more important that how good looking Gary is, Especially considering the outcome of TODAY and all, And I'm over it. I swear, I'm over it now. Im cool. Im cool. Im good. Anyway. What did you say?"

"WHAT OUTCOME?" Dad practically bellowed.

Well, I suppose its fair enough. Talk about a stressful day. And Dads usually the calm one, telling mom and me what to do, and he's always, like, there for us you know? Which is—

Wait. Question. Answer it.

"There was a murder at the mission today." Ha ha. What a catch phrase. 'Murder at the Mission!' Better yet, 'Murder at the Catholic School.' That would be a great movie title. No, it really would. I could star, and, who could be in my movie? Oh! What about that really hot guy I saw on America's next top Model? He was—

Oh My God. I'm rambling in my head. Is that even medically possible? Maybe I'm just like that chick in that movie, 'Obsessed.' With Jenna Elfman. Or whatever her name was. Hey. ELF. I wish I had a last name that cool. But NO, I get de Silva. SIMON, de Silva. Well that's not cool. In fact—

I suddenly tuned in to the multitude of questions being fired at me. Owing, no doubt, to their definite increase in volume.

"MURDER!" screeched mom. "WHAT THE _FUCK _DO YOU MEAN, MURDER?"

Whoa. I may be more of a potty mouth than mom, but when she _does _start cursing her pretty head off, she goes all the way. If you're going to say it, might as well scream it.

"I mean, as in the loss of a life on a intentional basis, by another being. 'Being' is the operative word, a ghost is still a being right? I mean, technically, they still _'Be'_ so—I mean, Yes, Someone was murdered. Brian was, by, if I'm not mistaken, the same ghost who is responsible for your collarbone."

Silence.

Now, in households such as mine, you know this is not a good thing.

"Say Something."

Mom shook her head, as to clear it, and asked for details. I admire her guts. "Well, I found him, and he was, sort of – totally and utterly dead. Owing to a broken neck. And the bastard was clever enough to make it look like it was Brian's own fault, like he _tripped _or something."

Mom threw her sheets off and swung her legs over the side of the bed, and grabbed my arm in a grip that HURT. "But you know it's not your fault right? I mean, you know that you aren't responsible? I mean, just because—"

"That will do Susannah." Dad said firmly. And only he can get away with telling mom to shut up. Anyone other guy who tried it would end up on their knees clutching their groin. Well, dad and a select few. Even my mom falls short of assaulting Father D.

"Melinda, you didn't see anything? Hear anything out of the ordinary?"

"Well," I said slowly. "No. No, not really. OH, except it was, well, it was just after Brian and I hade made up."

Dad's eyes sort of bugged. "Nombre de Dios."

"Wait! Not like that!"

EWWW! Losing your virginity to a gay guy. No thank you.

"I mean, Brian is DEFINITELY gay. DEFINITELY. What I meant was, I met his new boyfriend, Brian was really nice, he apologised and everything was rosy again. Well, until I found him sprawled in the flower bed with his neck twisted at an angle . . . at an angle . . . "

I couldn't finish. I mean, it's all very well come across Blasé, but given the present circumstances . . .

Instead I studied my shoes.

Same Black heels that I used to poke Brian . . .

It was suddenly all I could do to keep my lunch down.

Dad cursed angrily at the bland white wall. Any other time I might have asked what the wall had had ever done to him.

Not today. Fancy. I didn't even know that one.

Must remember to bring that one up at a later date.

The frequency of the word: 'Cogida' was enough for me to get the gist however. I think mom did too. She's no fool, She's knows enough Spanish to be able to tell the curses from the fluffy stuff. And its not like dad mentions the words Querida and Cogida in the same sentence. And I really DO NOT want to think about the bedroom exceptions.

Moving on.

"Please Jesse." Said mom. "Do you want me to resort to French? Because as you well know, my better phrases are French—"

Must. Get. Bedroom. Thoughts. Out. Of. Head.

See? I knew walking in on them would have serious repercussions. Its all _their_ fault I could be considered unbalanced. Although. The seeing dead people thing could have something to do with that.

Sure. I get the good genes appearance wise. But when you look BEYOND the shell, you get a REALLY fucked up mental psyche.

Delicious.

I tuned to hear some of dads threats. "My wife . . . my daughter . . . Le Matare el Asno-de-gato." Dad said furiously, moving his hand from moms shoulder to his keys, on the table beside him, like he was actually going to go and break said jackasses neck.

"Cant you stick to ONE LANGUAGE?" Mom demanded. She gets titchy at times like these. I have to say, I can see where she's coming from.

"He said he was going to kill the jackass." I translated tonelessly.

"That wouldn't help Jesse. Swearing at ghosts and threatening to take their lives won't work."

"Yes, because you've tried that and know ALL the repercussions right Querida?" dad said sarcastically.

"I don't know what you're talking about." Mom said loftily, shifting to grab the water pitcher. Probably so the movement would mask her scarlet cheeks.

"Sure you don't. R.L.S Angels at all Susannah?"

"Umm, No . . ."

"Mom, please hold. I really don't want to hear it. The fact of the matter is, I'm helpless. I truly am. I talked to father Dominic today and I know, that since this ghost has singled me out, there not much I can do about it. And I really, really HATE that, its just, its just so . . . "

Then I was crying into dad's shoulder.

Great.

Mom twisted my hair out of harms way and stroked my back in a reassuring sort of way.

Im definitely thankful for the hair touch, Good thing mom has my priorities covered.

And yet I'm crying _again_. The second time in one day. I had a certifiable excuse last time; my ex boyfriend was lying dead in my schools flower garden. This time I'm just being FEEBLE.

Im not usually this pathetic, I swear to . . . to Kyprioth, or the Hag, or, or APHRODITE for freaks sake, I don't know what's come over me.

Maybe I'm cracking up.

Maybe I really have lost my Marbles.

Poor Toodles. I hear ya pal. I've lost my marbles too. But yours were literal marbles. Mine were Figurative, so that's one up for you.

And now I'm talking to a fictional character. In my head. So I'm not even technically talking to Toodles.

So I'm NOT talking to a fictional character inside my head, but yet I AM talking to a fictional character inside my head.

I think I know have a headache. Either that or I'm a head case. If I were you, I know which my money would be on.

"It is OK Mel. It really is." Said mom comfortingly. "See? Im OK, your OK, Brian, well, Brian's Not exactly OK but—"

Did I mention that my mom is really bad at comforting people?

"Susannah. Hush." Dad said. "Melinda, listen to me. _Listen _to me." He said, lifting my head up so I had no choice but to look him in the eye.

Which was . . . Rather unnerving. Dad's eyes are such a shade of brown that you actually can't tell where the pupil ends and the iris begins . . . unnerving sums it up really.

"I know things are difficult sweetie." He continued, "I _know._ But have you heard this saying? 'People are like teabags. You never know how strong they are until you put them in hot water.'"

I looked up at him, my expression being that of, 'who are you, crazy man? You can let go of me now . . .'

"Don't give me that look Melinda. I know this is horrible. But you can do it. I have complete and utter faith in your ability to pull through. You're not being a '_wuss'_. You're showing emotion. Which is NOT," he shot a nasty look at mom, "A weakness. It's _strength. _It's heart. Its faith, its belief, and its something you have in abundance. Any one else would be running away now. Whereas you will fight on. Just like someone else I know." This time, when he looked at mom, I saw the true love in eyes.

Huh. He really loved her.

I mean, I knew THAT, Duh, that's they're always getting it on, even at the weirdest times. Need I mention the time when we were visiting Uncle Jake and Aunty Imajane? Their SIX-YEAR-OLD daughter found mom and dad in the hall closet.

But this is different.

And the look on dads face was mirrored perfectly by the look on moms. Minus the razor stubble. Of course.

True love. They were Soul mates. Made for each other, joined in a way other than just sex. Like there was a cord, linking their hearts together.

I don't know, maybe I'm just delusional, but for a minute, I could have sworn I saw that cord. Shining, shimmering, connecting moms heart to dads. It was something so pure, so beautiful.

"Thanks dad. And, uh, thanks Mom." I said, as I shook my head to rid myself of the image of the silver cord. When I looked again, it was gone. "For, you know, getting yourself pitched over a balcony in an effort to protect me."

"I knew you'd see it my way." Mom said with a happy go lucky grin, one that didn't quite distract from her beautiful green eyes that were, oddly enough, filled with tears.

I knew I'd hit on a 'Moment' then. My mother doesn't _cry_. Oh sure, she will when she, like, stubs her toe, or is watching a really soppy movie, where the child star with the adorable blonde hair and blue eyes meets a tragic death, but you know. She's _human_.

Although, when she caught my five-year-old-self emptying all her nail polish onto her pillow, it was safe to say I had my doubts.

But that's beside the point. So is the fact that I thought it would be a good idea to paint her pillow with nail polish.

"I love you guys. How long until you're healed mom?"

"Well, the doctor said about 6 months, maybe more, but with my added shifter healiness—Is that even a word? Huh, cool, I made a new word. Healiness. Anyway. With my added shifter _healiness _it could be anything from a few months to a few weeks to a few days. Hours might be pushing it."

"Susannah. You can't just _make _a new word." Dad said. "Words aren't _made_. They GROW."

"Im going to ignore that, and ask more about your—our shifter powers." I say.

"We-ell, I don't know MUCH, you'd have to ask P—No one" she broke off, glancing at dad, who'd stopped idly twiddling his wife's hair. "No-one. But I do know that our healing abilities is a result of our Shaman ancestors."

Hey cool. I have ancestors. SPECIAL ones with fancy names. YES, I know what a shaman is. I READ. Same way I knew of exorcisms and stuff. READING.

"I also know we can go back in time and . . . well, that's pretty much it really. OH, and we can visit the shadowland as we please, WITHOUT exorcising ourselves. Huh, wish a certain someone had been a LITTLE quicker with that particular tidbit."

"Well, duh, I knew about the whole time thinge-me-bob—" I winked at dad in my best stage manner, "—But what's the shadowland? I've read about it, but you know, Writers and Movie directors tend to take a certain amount of liberties with certain truths. Like the Sixth Sense. Little Haley Joel Osmand could be forgiven for being a little skittish if ghosts REALLY walked about with axes still stuck in their heads."

"Exactly." Beamed mom, "That's more or less what I thought when I saw the movie." Dad made no response except to stare moodily at moms reading monitor, which was assuring us that mom WAS in fact, still breathing.

"And the shadowland is like the dead people waiting room. Ghosts will open the door, and whatever is on the other side is there fate. Heaven . . .Hell . . . Their next life as a poodle . . ."

I allowed my self a brief moment to think of Brian as a Poodle, Or maybe a Chihuahua. HA HAH, Brian's going to be Paris's next Tinkerbell!

Moment over. But it's a moment I will cherish. The images that accompanied it will certainly live on.

"Nice touch mom."

"Yeah. I thought you might get some interesting visuals. I certainly got some crackers of Sister Ernie. Wait. She still kicking isn't she? Darn."

I love my mom.

"OK. I love you both, and I'm going to for coffee. You want?"

"Yes!" Cried mom desperately.

Well hello. Guess the day had been a strain. Gee, can't imagine why. Not like she got tipped off a balcony or anything.

"No." Said dad forcefully. "No Coffee. It might interfere with your system."

"Je-eessee." Mom whined. "Come ON! Show compassion!"

'No Susannah." Dad said, his eyes glinting mischievously. "You must do what the doctor orders."

"You're not my doctor. For obvious reasons."

"Im not budging Querida. Flutter your eyelashes all you want."

"Am I going to have to resort to my French, darling?" she paused dramatically, then quoted; "Voulez-Vous coucher avec moi?"

Dad flushed horribly, leading me to believe this wasn't the first time she'd tried this tactic on him.

I rolled my eyes, heading for the door, whishing that they'd pick a language I don't speak. Bulgarian maybe. Or Finnish. Or Pakistani! I'm not picky.

Dad thought I was out of earshot when he replied, "I seem to have forgotten what comes next, Querida," he said as he leaned low over her bed. "You might have to . . . remind me."

I slammed the door, practically running down the corridor, dragging a startled Alanna along with me.

Parents in love. What could _be _more disturbing?

77777777777777777777777

"You're messing with me." Squealed Alanna delightedly. "You are messing with me."

"I kid not dear friend." I retorted, winking.

"Oooohhhh!" Alanna shrieked, clapping her hands together.

"Hey. Take it easy. Decibel range you know?" I jibed good-naturedly.

We were settled in the hospital café, me with coffee, BLACK, of course. - Makes it stronger - and Alanna with Hot Chocolate that had chocolate flakes and marshmallows. I use past tense because I had, of course, already filched all her marshmallows.

"He likes me? Really? NO. No, he cant, I mean – I thought he was hot on YOU. I'm _not_ you. I'm nothing like you. You're, you're so _wild _and independent, Your BRAVE and strong, your not afraid to do you're own thing—"

"Thank you. I . . . think."

Ok. I have been labelled 'wild.' Meh. Have been called worse. Alanna just puts all the things in a nice light. For instance: 'Bitch' and 'headstrong' should definitely be on that list of hers.

"No matter what anyone else _thinks_—"

'Kay. She's not done.

"And you're so _beautiful, _I mean, did he take a blow to the head or something? I look _nothing _like you—"

"ALANNA. Shut up."

"But—"

"No. Listen to me. Sure, you're nothing like me. You have TACT, your care about people, your KIND and sensitive. YES!" I said as she made signs of interrupting. "You may be nothing like me, but what makes you thinks that's a bad thing? Daniel needs someone like you more than he needs someone like me. Someone 'Wild' as you put it."

She flushed and tried to hide it by lifting her freshened mug to her lips and taking a huge gulp. Scalding her throat im sure, but she gave no sign. See? She IS brave and strong and all that baloney. She just proved it by swallowing hot coffee.

Yes. That is a sign of bravery. Swallowing scalding hot chocolate. Didn't you know?

"There are different variations of bravery and strength Alanna. You just have unique versions. AND you're very beautiful."

She is too. Petite and blonde, with an innocent, pretty face and defined features. Instead of my 'IN YOUR FACE!' looks. I envy her, I really do. She has no idea just how gorgeous she is.

"Anyway. Back to." she said, possibly unnerved by just how deep I was digging into her psyche. "I _do _hope he like me, but what about you? I cant just—"

"You're not."

"Yes I _am—"_

"No you're not."

"Are you sure? I mean—"

"One hundred percent."

"_Really_? I mean, _really_, Really—"

"YES."

"Umm, OK."

"Ok?"

"OK."

"You'll go for it?"

"I'll go for it."

"YAY!"

"Yay." She said with a sweet smile.

Daniel won't stand a chance. Look at those lashes.

She's SUCH a honey.

"Good girl. So we must make plans—OH MY GOD!"

"WHAT?" demanded Alanna. She had jumped horribly when I yelled. "What? What is it? You look like you've seen a ghost! Wait . . ."

Huh, yes, well, as a technicality . . .

"Oh, er, its nothing, I just, um, remembered I haven't . . . powdered my nose!"

"_What?"_

Okay, next time I have to think of a better lie. Backtrack Melinda, BACKTRACK!

"HA, just kidding hon. what I meant was I have to go . . . buy mom some flowers."

"But you brought her that souvenir pin that said 'Carmel Hospital. California.' What do you—Oh." She said with a wink. _"Oh." _

I don't like that tone . . .

"OK. Have fun fixing you're makeup for _Nick._"

"Er . . . Come again?"

She gestured behind me where I saw a suspiciously familiar brown leather jacket disappearing up the hospital stairs.

Ah.

"OH, yes, um, sure, that's it Alanna. I have to go and. . . Er, I just have to go."

The truth was, I hadn't spotted Nick at all. By the way, what's he doing here? Hope his daddy's in a coma . . . though I mustn't get my hopes up.

Truthfully I _had_ seen a ghost.

Ironic huh?

No.

Well, yeah, but pretty shitty irony really.

Now, I was covered on Alanna's behalf, because, well, OTHER than the fact that she already knew about my little ability, she thought I was off to fluff up my hair so I looked nice when I ran into Nick.

And I'm not prepared to exactly crush her perfect little world, so t'was all good really.

I wonder what it would be like, exactly, to live in Alanna's world? Fluffy, frilly and pink I bet.

I followed the tell tale glow through the corridors. This couldn't be Stacy's ghost. Well, not unless Stacy's murderer was about seven, and died whilst wearing green overalls and red suspenders, with a plastic spade sticking out his back pocket.

But hey, this is the 21st century.

"HEY!" I hissed, "HEY! Dude! Helooooooo? Ghost? Oh glowing one!"

The little boy turned around to reveal a snub nose and freckles.

And I knew it wasn't our murderer. Murderers don't have snub noses and freckles. They just DON'T ok?

Then he spun back around and continued on his merry way.

"Oh my goodness. OK." I said, hurrying after him and tapping him on the shoulder.

So I suppose most normal people would have found their hands sinking straight through the cute – he's cute ok? – Boy's shoulder.

But no. Seeing as I am a FREAK of nature, I cannot only communicate and see ghosts, but I can TOUCH them as well.

Not like _that, _dirty person. That would be PAEDOPHILIA! And that my friend is frowned upon. Besides, making out with a ghost is just . . . weird.

My mom is the exception. Why? Because she's my mom. Automatic disqualification. And, if dad really loved her that much . . .

I don't know. Their case is just . . . different.

The little boy looked up at me with saucer eyes.

"Are you . . . talking at me?"

"Yes." Short and sweet . . .

"Oh." Shorter still. " . . . Why?"

I don't think 'because I can' would have been a very satisfactory answer. "Because I want to . . . Be your friend."

Well, I can have ghost friends if I want to! Jeez Louise.

"Oh." He said, apparently thinking it through. "OK." He said brightly.

"OK?" I said cheerfully. "Shake on it then." I stuck my hand out, and he spat on his, the shook mine.

"You didn't spit." He accused me. "It doesn't _count _if you don't spit."

"Dude . . . why don't we just imagine I spat, and well consider it a closed deal."

He thought about it. "Ok."

"OK?"

"OK!" he said, sounding so excited, I felt so sorry for him being dead. For a dead dude, he sure was pretty alive . . .

If that made ANY sense at all, let me know.

"So what's your name?"

"Robert. But _you _can call me bobby." He said with a wide grin.

That's an honour right? Yes. It is.

"OK. My name's Melinda, but you can call me Mel." It was a mark of how much I liked the kid. Usually no one but mom is allowed to call me Mel. And Mom is only allowed because she doest like to waste time chewing out long words. If she shortens my name, she can get a few more words in before she has to draw breath for the next sentence.

"Melly?"

"No."

"Please? Pretty, pretty PLEASE? With TWO cherries?" OH god. Little kids just have the puppy dog look down don't they?

If I tried that I'd just look stupid.

"Fine. Melly." I snapped.

"Yay." He said happily, unfazed.

A nurse came out of the elevator and gave me a weird look. Bobby started to wave, and then stopped. "I forgot." He said, not sounding sad at all. Some one, no names _Stacy_, could take some lessons off this one. "She can't see me anymore. She's mommy's friend." He said by way of explanation. He carried on down the corridor, very purposeful for some one who has no real matter.

"Umm, where are we anyway?" I asked slightly tentatively.

"Mommy's just down here."

Ah. That told me a lot more than Bobby would ever know. Maybe he had a message for his mom? Maybe he was supposed to give her back her change that he accidentally on purpose kept when she gave him money for a jumbo bag of M&M's?

What? It could _happen_.

Then I noticed that we were in what I refer to as the Deathbed Dally. The place where they put all those who are close to croaking. Dad doesn't know that I figured out what this particular wing was for. Hello, the patients themselves don't know what wing this is.

I've never told dad my nickname for this area. He might have a heart attack.

"Mommy's here. Come and meet my mommy." He said, not having to bother with doors.

I stood outside, knowing that he'd come back to get me, and that then I'd get him to tell me if his mom was in a state for visitors.

See?

I'm no blonde.

Sorry to all my blonde friends.

Im no Silly Billy.

He did exactly what I thought. When I opened the door I saw a pretty sort of woman; well she would have been pretty if she weren't as pasty white with her black hair plastered to her head.

She looked tentatively at me as I stepped through.

"Can I help you?" she asked in a tired voice.

Whoa. This woman was sick. Like, really, sick. I had no idea what was wrong with her, but it wasn't a cold, that's for sure.

"Umm, I'm a … er, a friend of you're sons'. He told me . . . if anything happened to him, I was to visit you."

Ha, NICE. Impromptu too.

"My only Son has been dead for over 8 years now."

Ok. Maybe not so nice.

"Umm, I was away? Visiting my . . . Grannie. In Florida. Yep. Florida. Sand, sun, and uh, sand. Yeah. So, um, how are you doing?"

"Three guesses. I'll give you a hint. Two words. First is 'Nearly' second is 'dead.'"

OK then.

I had respect for her though. She wasn't bullshitting around with denial.

"You're not here because you knew my son when he was living, did you." Her tone was more confirming that accusatory. Well, it was tired and worn out sounding too. But I'm not actually talking about that.

"What makes you say that?" I wasn't worried. My lies weren't great. But she really had nothing to suspect me of talking to the dead.

"My aunty was one." she gave me the shadow of a nod.

"One of what?" I asked, suddenly a little more nervous.

"You. One of _you. _She claimed to be able to see ghosts, and they locked her up. I saw one throw something at her though. It was a vase. And there's no way the wind could have blown it at her." She coughed, a horrible, rasping, echoing sound. "You don't have to deny it." She said hollowly. "Its not like I'd call the media, even if I was going to make a full recovery. Which I . . . wont."

OK.

What could you say to that? No, really, WHAT COULD I SAY? So I said the first thing that came into my head.

" . . . Um . . ."

Oh great. Now there's an award winning speech. No, great work Melinda, I chided myself. That was really heartening. The poor woman must feel so much better NOW.

"Its fine," she rasped. "What – what does my son have, have to say?"

I can't say 'I don't know.' Nor can I give her some crap about him owing her money.

"I, um . . . " Ok. How else can I say 'I don't know,' without actually saying: 'I don't know.' "I'm not exactly sure. He's here now. Do you – I mean, do you know why he hasn't, er, passed on?"

She groaned softly. "He's still here? Well have you asked him why he's still here?"

. . . No?

Should I have? I mean, I didn't expect him to know . . .

"Im waiting for mommy." Bobby said, like this was the most obvious thing in the world. "Daddy told me to look after Mommy, and I can't do that if I'm with the angels. So when mommy goes to God, I go with her, and I can hold her hand, so she won't get a-scared."

I was incredibly moved.

"He says," I said to the woman, not taking my eyes off Bobby, "He says he's waiting for you. So when you go to God, you wont be scared." I said in a choked voice. I turned to her, and saw that her eyes were closed, and her chest wasn't rising of falling.

Something started a high-pitched beep.

I turned to Bobby, and saw he was fading. He waved to me and blew me a kiss. "I have mommy!' he said, "You don't have to worry, I'll look after her!"

And he was gone. Just like that.

I would have loved to stay and commemorate, but with this beeping stuff, it wouldn't be long before someone appeared and started asking me awkward questions. I threw open the door and hurtled down the corridor, just making it to the corner when I heard them.

That was so . . . sweet.

And I am so stupid.

I thought as I made my way back up to mom. Well, not the part where the lady died – I didn't even get her name! Or why she was sick! But I doubt she would have wanted to hear questions from me.

Im glad I relayed the message in time.

'Ask the ghost.'

Why didn't I ask the ghost? God, my first real meditation and I fuck it up.

Typical.

Just one last question. Why can't all ghosts be like Bobby? Know exactly why they're here, and be as cute as hell. Or, heaven, I'm sure. There's no place for Bobby or his 'mommy' in hell.

And the fact that he wasn't trying to kill me, or anyone close to me probably had something to do with my adoration.

SOMEONE could use some tips from a seven year old.

Yes I am talking to you, nameless one that murdered Stacy and Brian and threw my Mom out a window.

And while I'm at it:

You. Are. An. ASSHOLE.

I rounded it off with some Spanish.

And called it a day.

> > >

**Tada! Now, you're all bright people. If you click the purple button, I'm sure you can work out what comes next. **

**I want to know what you're opinions would be on a title change. I may just be fickle, but I don't like the title of this story anymore. "The Daughter Of." Just sounds raw, and try-hard.**

**Oh, great. Now I've put ideas in all of your heads about my try-hard titling abilities. **

**I REALLY need this caffeine.**

**Much Love:**

**The-Mariah-who-is-going-to-raid-the-fridge-and-will-probably-do-somethig-drastic-if-she-dosen't-find-diet-coke. **


	8. What You Don't Know

**THE DAUGHTER OF: **

**Hey Y'all! **

**Ok. Now I'm apologising for the atrocity of posting a short chapter. Bt it couldn't be helped. Review replies: Once again, if you haven't reviewed, scroll down. Feeling VERY, VERY guilty.**

**SUPER GUILTY.**

**Your writing is here **booklover777! **I hope it was worth the wait.**

Querida25, **lol, but at least Pakastani sounded good right? I don't mind how much you ramble on, I LOVE long reviews, LONG IS GOOD! (Whoa. Anyway.) Lol, I'm glad you like the story. And my Friends aren't mean, really. They love me loads.**

**Oh GODess, **Sarah (The Cee factor) **I'm just thrilled you reviewed. It's so great, I absolutely LOVE Through Her Eyes, I love everything you write. Aww. Now I can't wait for your next update!**

**To the lovely **Catty Rose**: Crack up. I think we all pretend to be a little nicer than we are at some points. I do it all the time. Lol, But I have to, because I'm a hothead. So is Melinda, as a matter of fact. Even Suze is a little. Anyway, yeah, I'm glad you like Suze's characterization. She would have changed – getting older having kids, you know – but I this is how I'd envision her life. Sort of. Yes, you would have noticed how Melinda frequently cussed about every god around. Melinda's quite a special child, and there will certainly be some more on that later. Take particular notice of her talking about seeing stuff . . . But there! I've given too much away!**

**I know! **Sevvy101 **I love all the gods and particularly goddesses, ANOTHER reason for so many being in this story. My personal Favourite is Hera, Zeus's wife, but I like Aphrodite too. I like your new name as well. It makes me think of Sassy. Maybe that will be my next name. Lol. "Meet Melinda de Silva" isn't bad, but I'm not sure what I'm doing. And thank you SO much for the lavish praise!**

** Chants "Thank you **Char." **Lol, I am really flattered you bother to review this, with the amazing stuff you write. Same with Sarah. You better watch out for me. I might get star struck. Lol! **

aD3LINE, **You sure are violently opposed to them not being together! But in true Mediator form, nothings ever that easy, is it? There's always complications. I was sure blown away that someone cares enough about my story to write a review IN CAPS! Thank you LOADS for reviewing. **

**OK. New Chapter.**

**7777777**

WHAT YOU DON'T KNOW . . . 

OK. I got it now.

Fast healing doesn't exactly mean SUPERHERO like abilities. It just means _speedy_. Gotcha.

So when mom wasn't completely healed after a few hours, I should NOT have FLIPPED out. Instead I should have TACTFULLY and HELPFULLY asked her if she'd like me to get her any more diet coke. Or crunch bars. I should NOT have CRINGED when I saw some of the bruising. I should have DIPLOMATICALLY lied through my teeth and told her she was barely a little banged up.

But NO! Because I am a complete and utter MORON, I did NOTHING that could be remotely traced to TACT.

AND ANOTHER THING I NOW FULLY COMPREHEND? Mommy is quite vain. And does not appreciate such jibes as to her appearance at such stressful times.

Like, I knew that before, but NOW I KNOW TO JUST SHUT MY MOUTH COMPLETELY.

_Mime_ would have been a better alternative.

You would think, out of everyone, I would know better than most. Duh. I do the same thing. But you think I'm bad? I am nothing, NOTHING compared to my mother.

YOU'D THINK I WOULD HAVE REMEMBERED THIS.

MORON. Moron, moron, moron.

Though I cant say I'm the only moron in Carmel. Oh no. There are more.

It happened about a day after we'd gotten home maybe? Not when I was being a moron. No. It was WORSE. _Way_ worse.

After an accident, or event, it's appropriate for the family to receive well-wishers. Now, if you're not socially retarded, then you know just how long to wait before you visit, depending on how close you are to the, er, victim. (Sorry mom. Didn't have another word. Would you prefer to be called the injured party?)

Oh, and on the incident in question. THAT IS VERY IMPORTANT. DO NOT MISJUDGE THE INCIDENT. Because that will put you under the heading of socially retarded.

So it depends how close you are, and what happened.

Now given that mom was out of hospital, broken bones, you would give her the remainder of the day to recover. With close family. Day two is for her best friends and more immediate family. Day three is for her friends, and extended family, Day Four is for the people who THINK they're friends -Can you believe? This chick called something-er-rather Mancuso showed up? – And for the great aunt that you never really knew you had. Day five is for the attacker to finish the job.

Kidding mom. Kidding.

So there you are. More or less. You would have had about seven or eight days until you're scratched off Moms Christmas list.

But in this case, I'm going to raise the issue of day one hundred and fifty four. I want a day that is SO far away; it stops JUST short of a restraining order. Because putting a restraining order on well-wishers would be a major blunder. But I might be able to get away with it, if I could prove that said well-wishers weren't really there to WELL WISH, in my humble opinion.

THEY SHOULD HAVE ARRIVED ON DAY ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY FOUR. NOT DAY THREE.

(Who would take my case though? No, really. Who passes such things? I mean, we all know that's is not socially acceptable to spit on strangers and so on, but, who said so? Some days I want to hug them, others I want to knee them in the groin. . . me and my fickle nature.)

SO yes. It was NOT their day. I would go so far as to call them rude. RUDE I tell you.

Oh, and HE had the whole, "Suzie, what have you done now?' thing DOWN. I am so sure. And his wife! She just laughed! It was like, she was so disgustingly secure that she didn't CARE that her husband was practically hitting on another woman. AND that's given that mom's bruises were almost gone by day three, you could tell that she was totally hot, and any NORMAL, UN-self-actualised BLONDE would be threatened.

I suppose it's different for models. And MORE different for Supermodels. Damn them. And damn him! Bringing his stupid son, and his stupid – BLONDE! Very blonde! – Wife, and his stupid CAR, and the stupid ROSES, that he was all, "Suze hon., these are for you—"

DAMN THEM ALL.

Can't say I was alone in thinking this. When mom showed them in, I was half convinced dad was going to jump him then and there.

I don't care what dad says. It is clear to me that there will never be any love lost between Dad and Slater senior.

And mom's not totally blind to the situation. She fully grabbed dads arm, making it look like she was just doing it because, you know, she could.

Well its not like _he_ wasn't all over his stupid bimbo. I don't know who that pissed off more. Nick, Dad or Me. Dad though it was rude. Nick? Well, who knows what the hell Nick's thinking. And um, Hello? Hypocrite much Nick? You and Cindy don't exactly keep in mind the passing pre schoolers when YOU go at it.

And I was mad because, well, I DON'T LIKE THEM, OK? I don't like ANY of them.

They can JUMP OFF A FRIGGING BALCONY.

. . . excuse the pun mom. Well, you didn't _jump_ . . .

"Thank you Paul." Mom said, and she was making a pretty good job of being civil. Well, I suppose it's easier for her than dad and I. She doesn't hate any member of the family with a passion. "Melinda, honey, would you mind putting these somewhere?"

"Does out the window count?" I muttered as I took the huge bouquet of roses off her.

Slater just smiled and when mom told them to take a seat, the wife refused, "I'll help," she smiled at me, her name I later found out is Chenaol. Pfft. Models. Why they can't just have normal names like the rest of us, I'll never know. "I think we should give Paul a moment to talk his way out of the punch that I can see your dad is dying to throw." She whispered to me as we walked into the kitchen.

Im afraid I grumbled something unintelligible in response. HEY! I didn't care if I sounded socially retarded.

I tend to change the rules to suit _me_.

Tough titties.

"So, Melinda is it? I like your outfit." She said in a voice that had quite a mixed accent to it.

AND? Am I supposed to be all, like, STAR STRUCK because YOU LIKE MY OUTFIT? News FL-ASH!

But . . . I liked my outfit too. I had on my black skinny jeans and a peach off the shoulder knit (Belle de Darla – new designer) with my hair down – messy – and I had on peach toned makeup. I was possibly subconsciously showing Gary how to REALLY wear orange knits. And let me tell you Gary, THIS IS HOW ITS DONE.

All of this. Yes. Brian chose YOU over ALL of THIS.

But I cannot believe this – this – IT! Is making small talk with me. Oh babe, two can play.

"Thank you!" I simpered, "It means so much that you like my outfit, a world renown supermodel like you! Now if you don't get your stupid air filled head out of my face," I growled, "I will—"

What have I got? Glares? Yeah, Heaps of those. I'll GLARE AT YOU.

"Oh my god." She said, rolling her eyes, which surprised me a little. All I'd expected her to do was a goldfish imitation. You know, lips . . . whatever. Maybe I've made Cindy a sort of benchmark blonde.

"You heard me. Go fall of a runway somewhere, I don't really care which one."

"Ok." She sounded exasperated, which also surprised me. "I was being _nice_. There's no reason you have to be such a _bitch_."

OHHHHH! It's all ON Now!

"Hey! No name-calling. It's called respect. R-E-S-P-E-C-T."

Love you Aretha. R-E-S-P-E-C-T. Find out what it means to me. R-E-S-P-E-C-T, Take Care T.C.B!

I don't even know what the hell she meant when she said take care T.C.B.

Maybe it was her dog.

But hey. Freedom of speech.

"I don't have respect for you!" I continued angrily, "Because you make a living out of parading around in next to nothing. I'm SORRY, but I'm struggling to muster any respect for THAT."

Oh yes. The chick in the orange corner is WHIPPING the ass of the bimbo in the Versace corner!

"Well," she said, sounding irritated, "maybe its because you're so frigging one eyed that that's how you would see it. You wouldn't see it as a woman showing what she's got to the world, proving she can live her own life, And using her body to her best advantage."

"Well perhaps I would call that prostitution."

"Isn't that the same? Woman are still in control, still calling the shots, and using the situation – and the stupid idiots who fall at the feet of anyone with a minimum C cup – to get what they want!"

Umm . . .

"Next time you want to call on someone's morals, take a look at how two faced your own are."

Slience from the orange corner . . .

She was one hundred and ten percent right.

And I now know what I want to do when I leave school. I want to be a stripper.

Wonder what Grandma's going to say?

"I get that." I said slowly. "And I apologise. Full heartedly. But there's still the fact of what you _married_." I said, gesturing back into the living room.

"Deiu!" she exclaimed, telling me she had a lot of her life on the runways of Paris. So that's what the accent was. French with a little bit of German. And then there was the slight Chicago brassiness, which would suggest a few years there. Probably with the Slaters.

Damn them.

And shut up. I like languages. And I like Chenaol. I really do like this chick. This MODEL chick.

She's straight up. Probably not the next Bill Gates, but hey, neither am I. But she's nice. Well, before I essentially told her that she had the IQ of a goldfish.

Understandable. If I told _me_ I had the IQ of a fish, I would be insulted too.

(Did that even make sense?)

"I know your family has a grudge against Paul, OK? I know. But personally I understood where he was coming from. He was in _love_ with your mom."

SLAP.

No really, she could have slapped me and I would have been less surprised.

OK. Here's the plan. Pretend I knew.

Pretend I knew that Nick-look-at-my-great-BMW-Slater's FATHER Had a thing for my mother. And that the person she mentioned whom almost fucked up her and dad's LIFE was NICKS FATHER. And things weren't just a little tension-y between dad and him just because mom came off worst in a scrap with him. NO! Slater was scamming on dads girl!

Dude. That's just low.

Beyond low.

Scummy.

POND scummy.

Exactly what I've come to expect of a Slater.

"Oh. Sure," I said with a tinny sounding laugh. "But I mean, Love has its limits. Otherwise, wouldn't it be Slater married to mom, not dad."

Chenaol smiled. "I actually think it's really romantic. Paul may have loved Suze, but at the and of the day, the love between Jesse and her was stronger." She giggled. "Strong enough to raise the dead."

I _was_ wondering how much she knew. WAS. Past tense. Now I know. SHE KNOWS IT ALL. Gah. Why'd Slater have to go and spill the beans? ALL of the beans? It was a trusting and endearing gesture I would not have expected from Satan's spawn.

OH well. For the good of humanity, I'll just have to ignore all redeeming qualities.

Yeah. See peeps? It's for your own good.

"OH. Yeah. Well, that's great, that – that really is but—"

"I suppose you want to know how we met? I healed Paul's wounded heart . . ."

No I don't want to know. Pfft. And healing wounded heart.

SOMEONE'S BEEN READING TOO MANY SOPPY ROMANCE NOVELS.

God, STAY AWAY FROM MOMMY'S BOOKSHELF CHILDREN.

You might . . . _learn_ things that your not ready for.

And then you stumble across mommy and daddy who LIED when they explained that sex was a giant hug.

And life's never the same.

"It all started when Paul left Nicks mom, taking him with her."

Whoa. Now she has my full attention.

"She was a librarian, and I can't think of what they might have had in common other than sex." She said this so brassily, wasn't she even a little jealous over all Slaters women? When you've had as many as he . . . lets just say it's not a position I envy her.

He's just like bluebeard! the dude who had seven wives! I use past tense because he murdered all of them.

Jeez. How much would it suck if your dad started marrying then killing all of your step mum's?

Wait. Has Slater actually murdered anyone?

Hurrumph. Wouldn't put it past him.

I stubbornly pushed down the slither of pity I felt for Nick then. It wasn't like his dad WAS a murderer. No, he's just a man-whore.

"There was nothing interesting about her. Nothing except Nick to make him stay either, so he took Nick with him. And I met him one night while he was out for a few drinks."

She didn't have to tell me he was on a date. I knew.

"I'd just finished a shoot, and I must have had something that attracted him to me—"

Other than a good rack? Right. I bet it was the supermodel thing. It hooks 'em every time, right Daniel?

"—And the rest is history!" she finished, holding up a hand proudly displaying her more than pretty rings.

Chenaol is gorgeous. Duh. Model. She's either being WAY modest, or I've given her intelligence more credit than she deserves, OR she truly doesn't know.

How depressing for us mortals.

Mind you. I suppose its better that I'm not drop dead gorgeous. I would shamelessly manipulate people _so_ much.

I mentioned this to Chenaol and she laughed.

'I don't know what it is about people today. NO girl thinks they're gorgeous. Not even pretty. And if you're not gorgeous, who is?"

I brushed this off as being too silly for words.

Really. Hello? Who does she work with? Other SUPERMODELS.

Someone's been at the loco weed.

"Anyway." I said with a shrug, "Lets go see if dads managed to drop your husband yet." I walked quickly out of the kitchen pretending not to notice Chenaol watching me.

DISAPPOINTED.

SLATER WAS STILL ON HIS FEET AND THERE WAS NO THREATS BEING TRADED.

DAMN HIM TO HELL. I hope his daddy welcomes him with open arms.

Ha! Get it! Satan's spawn . . .

Ha?

Ok, that was lame.

Instead the atmosphere was one of strained civility. On both sides. Damn.

Everyone was quietly talking.

Truly.

Pleasantries.

Weird.

I sidled up to dad and asked why Slater wasn't finding himself airborne through a window yet.

Like dad would ever throw someone out a window. **(A/N: Heh.)**

"Actually," dad said tonelessly, "An agreement was made."

Why do I have a feeling I'm not going to like this?

**7777777**

**Cliffhanger . . . **

**Lol. I don't mind if you throw things at me for this, I'll duck.**

**But I don't know when I'll next be updating, because I have a suffering social life. It's not good when I start falling off stages because I'm busy planning my next fanfiction chapter.**

**And you all better hope Jesse's gotten over his little arranged marriages hang up. **

**Its not duty Jesse. It's TORTURE.**

**That's what schools are for. They are there for Satan's sardonic entertainment. **

**Anyway. Thank you, and REVIEW.**

**Or it will be ME throwing things.**


	9. Can Hurt You

**THE DAUGHTER OF:**

**Hi Ladies! … And guys. But I don't think any guys read my story. If they do, well, WELCOME. Ok, this is the second section of a double chapter. Meaning, the last chapter – What you don't know . . . – and this one - . . . Can hurt You - Are Buddies! That's right! Just thought I'd clear that up In case someone's having an off day. I'm just saying. Another thing I have to clear up is the name thing; Melinda calls Paul 'Slater' and Nick 'Nick,' (Or any other foul names that come into her head) and Chenaol is 'Chenaol.' So yeah. Melinda won't ever refer to Nick as 'Slater.' Why? Because that would be weird. And as I'm the creator, I am on a power trip. But don't panic. That's nothing new. But did I mention I have finished my exams? _Passed_ is another matter entirely, but who cares! FINISHED!**

**This Chapter is for Char, I don't know if she'll get to read this – and that's fine – but Char is a truly _brilliant_ writer, and before the imploding, she STILL found time to read this. And, well, now . . . just; All my love Char. XX00.**

**To all my other beautiful – and handsome – reviewers, feast your eyes! You non-reviewers? FOR SHAME. **

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**To **BlueSea14 **I'm super glad you like it! Stay tuned! . . . hey I sound like a news reader. Cool. Although, it never ceases to amaze me how they always start with, "Good evening," and then they list all the things that tell you why it is NOT, indeed, a good evening. But, I will forever love you, because you are my 70th REVEIWER! YOU MADE SEVENTY! WOOHOO! AM JUMPING UP AND DOWN!**

Sarah, **otherwise known as **The Cee Factor **– which do you prefer I call you? And Oh yeah Baby. I have humour. Somewhere . . . You know, I crack myself up, so I figure that's what counts. Of course, it also grants me some REALLY weird looks, but whatever. Am hoping to see some of THE up soon, hmm? That was a not so subtle hint. Lol. **

Mary, **the infamous-or I dunno, are you famous? Hey cool. You could be like Jane Seymour or, or, Lisa Smith, or, or MARILYN MONROE – wait. Marilyn's deceased, isn't she? Damn it. Marilyn Monroe isn't reading my stories. CURSES! Can I pretend? Anyway. **sing-to-the-stars. **I'm glad you like my writing enough to quote me. Seriously. That is just so freaking cool! I liked the tough titties thing too. I meant to censor it to "Biscuits" before I updated, but I forgot. You didn't mind though? Well the cliffy got a fair bit of sweating – I MEAN SWEARING! Lol. – Out of people. It was fun. Seriously. This must be how god feels when he, like, throws down a thunderstorm or whatever. Yeah . . . I'm sane. I swear. When you said sloth the first thing that came into my head was like, the seven sins, And I was all, 'Dude. Dudette. What have you done now?' THEN I got it. And fended off the sloths accordingly. **

**Dear **chloe**; Yay! I'm glad my story has been discovered by you! Its so brilliant. I have another reader. Thank you so much for the review, I'm sorry, the cliffie is not all that great. I'll let you in on a secret. This cliffie wasn't actually planned, I just couldn't be bothered writing any more. SHHH!**

**Right on **Gabrielle**. You got it right sista. Thank you for the praise. I love praise, its just so goshdamn praisy! Wow. I sure have a way with words. Not. Anyway. The idea is Melinda and Nick will end up scrapping it out sometime, but I only just realised I haven't written that into the plan yet. Something will happen, rest assured. Oh! I'm just dying to give you a spoiler now, but I can't! Ahh! I so want to. But unfortunately, my lips are sealed. Look out in approximately two Chapters from now. WEAPONS bro. WEAPONS.**

**Wasn't out vase interaction just the coolest **aYmIn? **Lol. As I said to chloe, the cliffie isn't even that great. And an arranged Marriage was NEVER going to happen. It just wouldn't belong in this story. And it would take a truly brilliant writer to de-cheese the actual idea. Not I my friend. Not I. **

**As I said, **Booklover777, **glad to be of service. lol. Did I mention I finished midterm exams? Guess what? I finished midterm exams! Once more? I finished midterm exams! Sorry. And Go nuts with the printer. Just don't slag off or copyright me. Lol. You wouldn't, would you? I think you seem too nice. That's reminds me. I haven't written a disclaimer in a while. God. I truly am a loose cannon, aren't I? Cue the eyerolls. **

**Heh heh, **aD3LINE, **I don't mind caps. I USE THEM ALL THE TIME! Well, with exclamation points. Lol. Don't panic. And _someone – _cough Adeline coughcough – has a crush on Nick! Nick and Adeline, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G, Lol. Shut up. I never laid any claim to maturity. **

SEVVY101 **HAS A COOL NAME! Thank you for reviewing. Ooh, the ones who didn't . . . boy, GLARES are heading their way! Laters to you too hon, thankies for reviewing. **

**Don't I know it **Missymee! **Don't I know it! I had midterms. Lucky for me I gave up on French after one year. I figured once I knew how to say; "Hello." And "I think your hot." And "HEY! Look! There's a monkey!" I really had all the essentials down. I was kidding about the arranged marriage. I wouldn't be the person to write that at all. Lol. Lets just say I wouldn't stop at tension. **

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**OK. And I'm glad someone appreciated the models brain cells. Chenaol is based loosely on a friend of mine who is truly gorgeous, but she doesn't see it. No one can hold a candle to her, yet she's still one of the nicest people I have ever met. Enjoy the chapter. **

. . . Can Hurt You.

"_What_?" I said slowly, more than a trace of wariness in my voice betraying me, "What?"

"Jesse? I believe you wanted to take this one?" Mom said with a smile.

Dad just stood up, and putting an arm around me, lead me over to one of the windows next to the china cabinet that mom hadn't wanted, but grandma said it was only right that it should be passed down. If I looked out, I could still see some of the evidence that builders had been there recently.

Granddad – Andy – was so cheesed at the people dad hired to fix my doors. He didn't think their work was good enough. Which made us all smile, as they were doing a fine job. I think dad was trying to get it done as quickly as possible, so I wouldn't be reminded of what happened every time I looked out the door. It was a good idea, but it didn't stop me from pulling the drapes over the curtains and refusing to go out there, even after the people grandad got to 'fix this mess _properly.' _Had fixed it according to granddads instructions.

"Dad. Spit it out." I said, looking back at everyone in the room behind us. Dad chose to ignore them, which was gratifying, but a little confusing.

We were standing next to the windowsill, where mom had put her various bouquets, and because there were so many of the beautiful stems, they were threatening to fall.

Dad reached past the dead flowers Adam had given mom (Adam had said as he'd given them to her "I think these are daisies. I don't know. They looked better before they died.") and gently touched one of the beautiful white orchids that he – dad - had given her.

"Well . . ." he said as he looked down at me. "You remember asking your mother about shifters and ghosts? And her replying she didn't know much, only what Slater had told her?

"Yes . ." I said, shooting a look at Mom.

"Technically, when Susannah went through that window . . . she should have been able to see her assailant. The fact that this ghost was able to put himself one up over a shifter . . . Well, it doesn't look good."

"I know. That's what I've been saying since the beginning."

"No." dad said, shaking his head. "You don't understand. Ghosts have a variety of different . . . abilities—"

"Like telekenetics?" I said darkly, thinking of Stacy and her stupid mirror trick. Come to think of it, I hadn't seen her in a little while. I wonder where ghosts go when they're not pissing off members of the living? Well, as long as she was stalking someone else for a change . . . I won't be complaining.

"—Yes like telekenetics. But Susannah is a _shifter_." He said, sounding a little frustrated. "I don't know what's so different about this ghost. There's just something . . . and it bothers me.

"I don't mean to sound impertinent-"

"And yet," dad said dryly, "You manage it all the time."

I ignored that. "But isn't a lot of this based on guess work? I mean, who really knows?"

"Melinda. Who was the ghost in this room?"

"Oh. Right. Damn." That took the wind right out of _my _sails. I just KNEW this was all going to come back and bite me in the ass. Why do I even bother to get up in the mornings? WHY? WHY?

"What your dad is saying Melinda," Slater said smoothly from his seat across the room, and as I turned around to face him, mom came over to dad and pulled him down into a couch then sat next to him. "That your ghost—" My ghost! I resent that. "Isn't like anything any one of us has come across before."

Is there EVER a run of the mill dead person? I didn't THINK so. "So what, you're saying that I get the 'special' one?" I said with a roll of my eyes. "I can take care of myself, ok?"

"Oh sure Melinda." Nick snapped suddenly. I'd forgotten about him. He was standing in the shadow of the doorway. Again. God, what is it with guys like him in doorways? What, if I'd turned around, would he have jumped out and attacked my jugular? Something to keep in mind. "That's why you had a breakdown when you found Brian dead." He continued, unaware of my vampire suspicions. "You were BESIDE YOURSELF. I don't exactly think that comes under the heading of 'taking care of yourself.'"

"Oh shut up." I snapped, startled off the vampire train of thought. "What do you know? And personally, I don't think its any of your business what I get . . . EMOTIONAL about and what I don't!"

Whys he so pissed anyway? I'm human. Am I suddenly not ALLOWED to be upset that my boyfriend died? I mean—EX Boyfriend! Ex boyfriend! . . . I need help. Several corses of intense psychotherapy might do the trick.

"Of course its my business! If you go around practically asking to be murdered, then I consider it my business!"

"I don't ASK TO BE MURDERED." I shouted, suddenly furious. He has no CLAIM to me! "No one ASKS to be murdered! Can you even HEAR yourself?"

"Ahem." Chenaol cleared her throat and I looked over. "I believe we were discussing ghosts. Paul?" Slater was smirking again. God I hate that smirk. Nick looks JUST like that when he smirks. Well, despite the fact that Nick doesn't usually have a model hanging off his arm.

USUALLY.

"Yes. And before one of our topics of discussion got hot and bothered about Nick taking a concern in her welfare . . ." I felt my cheeks start to colour.

"I don't need his concern."

"Sure you don't." Nick snapped. "That's why you needed me to save your ass with Brian and Gary."

"I didn't NEED you to 'save my ass'!" I shrieked, moving away from the window so I could directly accuse him, "Do you remember that _I_ was the one that had to stop you from grinding Gary into the pavement?" I was getting a little beside myself now. Slater stopped whatever it was he was going to say and settled back, like he was watching this great show. Well pooh to him.

"Maybe," Nick said, coming out to meet me. "But I wasn't the one looking like I'd been slapped when I saw who Brian chose to replace you with!"

"That's because you never went out with Brian." I said, guessing what he was getting at, and determined to stop him revealing this to the entire room. He couldn't be right. That would be ridiculous.

"You were CRUSHED when you saw those two together. You knew there was no chance of you getting back with Brian." Nick said coldly.

He was wrong, I decided. He was wrong. I didn't have _true _feelings for Brian. Right from the beginning I think I knew that. _I _didn't feel anything for him, but I was upset that he didn't feel anything for him either.

In a way, I was using him as much as he was using me.

Boy is that a revelation. But I still don't exactly feel like sharing that with Nick. God knows what he'd make that out to be. So yeah, seeing Brian and Gary was a shock, but not bad. And I was PLENTY torn up when I saw Brian dead. But that's the natural reaction of finding someone you knew reasonably well lying with a broken neck in your school gardens, his neck broken, because, well, your best friends murderer – who happens to be dead - had taken a shining to you, and was now trying to hurt everyone you loved.

Well, I'm not exactly sure how many people this has happened to, but I'm assuming my reaction was pretty normal. Boy, do I feel wise now. Just like that crazy monkey in the Lion King. He was WISE AS. But he could be a total nutter. Wonder if he too saw dead people? Now that's food for thought.

"Of corse I was crushed." I said, now a hundred percent sure of what I was saying. "Hello! Gary was wearing a VIOLENTLY ORANGE CARDIGAN. No _wonder _I looked like I'd been slapped." I saw Chenaol wince at the idea of a VIOLENTLY ORANGE CARDIGAN on a guy. Shudder.

"Could that be the reason for your outfit today? You're jealous that Brian wants _Gary _not you_?"_

On that, Mom got up and suggested we carry this discussion some other time. No one listened. Least of all me.

"_Excuse_ me?" Why? Why did he have to go and mention this! God, let sleeping dogs lie, OK? I've figured it out! Let me be!

"You heard me. You're in love with Brian, and when you saw him lying dead in the gardens, you lost it."

WHAT? I JUST DISCOVERED I DIDN'T EVEN LIKE BRIAN IN A 'SPECIAL WAY,' AND NOW NICKS TELLING ME I LOVED HIM? Boy has he got his wires crossed.

"In _love_ with Brian? Are you KIDDING me?"

"No."

And I started to laugh. I couldn't help it. I just got a glimpse of this story from an outsiders perspective, and realised how ridiculous all of this was. Nick looked so startled when I started to laugh too. "I'm not in love with Brian." I managed to choke out. I don't think Nick's seen this in a different light yet, but there's nothing I can do about that. Mom was looking a little worried too, and as soon as I'm able to draw breath, I'll have to set her straight on that. "I wasn't- I'm fine mom – I'm not in love with Brian.' I continued. "I just admitted to myself that I didn't even like him, and you come up with that and I'm sorry but—" I couldn't help it. I started to giggle again. Just the _irony _of it all, "Then you go and suggest I'm in love with someone who's dead? Well that's a . . . nice view Nick."

Then Slater started to laugh. And I realised what I said. "Hey." I said to Slater. "They're different and you know it."

"Don't I." he said, still laughing slightly. Nick looked somewhat chagrined, but he could go and molest a chicken for all I cared. And yet . . .

Oh whatever. Go and find that poor chicken.

But for the Lords Almighty's sakes! I'm seventeen. Seventeen! I know mom was younger when it was she and dad but, they're – they're SPECIAL ok? just like snowflakes. Special and unique.

Snort.

I crack myself up.

Isn't that sad?

"Moving on." Said Slater with a grin that made it easy to forget he wasn't Satan's Spawn, but instead, an actual man with emotions.

But I know your kind!

I actually . . . I don't really know what to think anymore. SO CONFUSING. But, in the light of current events, I'm just going to have to suppress this. Very unhealthy, psychologically speaking but really, what can you do?

"So . . . " I drawled "we know my ghost is 'Special!'" I said in an adult humouring a preschooler voice ... '_Yes_ dear, that DOES look like your mommy . . . ' when really; the drawing could be mistaken for a frog. But you know. Personal interpretation RULES! "But do we know WHY?" I continued.

DETAILS PEOPLE!

"Well . . ." Slater said with the air of a teacher who doesn't want to tell a student the answer because the teacher wants the students to work it out for themselves. What the teacher hasn't realised is WE DON'T CARE. Just give us the goddamn answers!

I rolled my eyes. "C'mon. Just chuck it out there."

"Why you cant see him? Simple. Gramps laid this out to me about a few months before he died."

Oh, TACT.

"Essentially, just because someone dies, doesn't mean they lose their characteristics or personality or talents. A Brilliant painter would still be able to paint . . .well, if they could touch paint. Do you see where I'm going?" he questioned.

Oh goddess . . . this is so, so bad.

"I- I think I _do_ . . ." I said, going still as I contemplated what this could mean.

"We know ghosts retain charactereristics . . . Jesse here-" he said with a grin. Which I saw past. Slater wasn't finding this funny. I could be mistaken, but he WAS worried. God knows what about. "Jesse here," he said with a grin for mom, "Didn't lose his talent with the ladies when he died—"

Ho!

That would be funny if I didn't see where he was going with this. Daddy as a ladies man. SNORT. I think he'd take offence at that. Dad can take a joke, sure, but not when it comes out of Slater's gob.

"—I think it was the spurs." Slater turned to Chenaol. "Would spurs turn you on?" She just smiled. Ridiculous. "No you are more a romance chick. While Suzie here, Suze has always liked it rough . . ."

SNAP.

Truly, dad looked like he did that time when I was five and asked him what 'stinking hoebag' was. It was AGES before I was allowed to talk to uncle Brad again.

Well, think dad decided to break their little agreement, and beat the crap out of Slater anyway. Good move Daddy.

AND THEN HE DIDN'T.

SERIOUSLY.

He just looked at me then, with an expression of great strain, its true, stayed seated! No Fair! Gods, don't stop on my account.

Slater just carried on.

"I think I've made my point. So what do you think," he asked, suddenly looking at me, "Would happen to a dead shifter?"

. . . _fuck._

"No . . . "

"_Yes."_

Mom suddenly crossed the room quicker than I'd have expected - well, for a woman who broke hr collarbone A FEW DAYS AGO. But then, I've always known mommy was special. I think it was the dead people thing that clued me in – she grabbed Slater and demanded, "So even if we exorcise . . . He'll just come _back?"_

"In theory." Slater nodded.

"SCREW THEORY!" mom snapped, "I want some goddamn answers. I don't want my daughter DEAD."

"Yeah, well I don't exactly relish the idea of rattling chains for the rest of my life either, But is there anything I CAN do?"

This should be bothering me. More than it was. But know I knew – or suspected what I was up against, I felt ready to beat some serious crap out of someone.

Namely the stupid fat ghost who KILLED Stacy.

You know, if it weren't for her murderer, I still wouldn't know that I could communicate with the dead. They were going to tell me, point, but would I know now? So that's the one thing stopping me from hunting him down right now and murdering him with a chainsaw. I'll settle. But only for something extremely lethal looking. Gruesome I know. But what the HELL would you _expect_ when you murder someone as wonderful as Stacey. Her friends would just sit back and be all; 'OK. dude, have a nice day.' I don't THINK so.

"Yes." Slater said, sounding like he was pleased at my astuteness. "But you're not exactly a stereotypical shifter either Melinda. Who knew what would happen with a shifter and an ex ghost? YOU. You might have the power to be different—"

SWEEEEET.

Maybe, like X-RAY vision! Or TELEPATHIC-NESS! FINALLY! I GET MINE! Ooh! INVISIBILITY!

"—Or not." Slater finished.

"Oh," I said, not quite able to keep all of the disappointment out of my voice. For a minute there—darn. "Ok. So your telling me I MIGHT be able to do something about this – this –" with a quick look at dad I changed the word I had in mind," _person - _but you don't know?"

"Pretty much. I'm sorry I'm not more help, Melinda."

I ignored the fact that I'd just got an apology out of a Slater – no mean feat! – and cast my memory back to the strange unexplained things that's happened to me. Obviously, that number gets cut dramatically in half when you take into account that I can see ghosts, (Suddenly there's shitloads of explanations for nearly ALL the weird crap that happens to me.) Nearly. There's a few. Most of them I suppose are just coincidence. But I'd swear theres been a few times . . .Like that time I had that dream about the fire. That was odd. And then at the hospital and I SAW that cord linking mom and dad. And then that time I was little and . . .

I am a walking freak show.

Truly. I'd just dismissed all that as my having an over active imagination. But what if that's not it?

Great. Well someone got the message seriously mixed when they said what you don't know can't hurt you.

THEY. LIED.

BIG TIME.


	10. Note to Self:

**HEY LADIES!**

**You know what I've discovered? I REALLY LOVE DEAD MANS CHEST.**

**No, not 'I love THE dead mans chest', instead I'm talking about the second Pirates of the Caribbean movie, '_dead mans chest_.'**

**Yeah, I went just to ogle Davy Jones . . . NO. CAPTAIN Jack Sparrow, all the way.**

**Just thought I'd get that off my chest.**

**Ha . . .**

**Shutting up.**

**Sorry I haven't updated in a while peeps. I was BUSY. As in BURIED busy. But, I was not busy enough to change my name. Never fear, i'm usually something to do with Disney. Dunno why that is really. It just STUCK.**

**But I'd like to say thank you to every single one of you reading this, and I promise you, THE GOOD STUFF IS COMING. PROBABLY NEXT CHAPTER. **

**Buy knowing my luck, it'll probably suck and I'll get flamed and loose all my readers.**

**THAT WOULD NOT BE FUNNY. **

**But anyway, I decided to put the personalised thankyou's at the bottom this time, so for now, I'm pleased to present you with another chapter of The Daughter Of. **

Note To Self, 

If I have to hear ONE MORE version of 99 bottles of beer on the wall then I will SCREAM! And not only will I SCREAM, but I will NOT be held accountable for my actions! I'm apologising in advance here. Who would have thought that a carload of 17yr olds would still pick 99 bottles of beer on the wall as their road trip song choice?

And you know what I've found out? I really HATE that song.

Although, I will own up to not liking ANY song with 99 versions being sung by a bunch of over-enthusiastic, off key, wannabes. And WHO WOULD HAVE GUESSED 99 BOTTLES OF BEER WAS A SONG THAT YOU COULD SING OUT OF TUNE?

I suppose I could understand the off key thing if it was, I don't know, say Romeo and Juliet at the Opera, BUT ITS NOT! And these empty headed … BITS ON THE SIDE, have actually managed to screw up 99 BOTTLES OF BEER.

You see something amazing in every day life.

I suppose; it's only actually Scott and Todd who are off key. But they're really _loud. _Is that what sport does to you? Physical exertion destroys your creative ear and cultivated appreciation?

Although, I don't know if 99 bottles of beer on the wall is a very good example of cultural magnificence.

Let this be a lesson a lesson to us all. American Idol would agree with me! IF YOU CAN'T SING, JUST STOP TRYING! It would save us all some pain!

See Arabia? This is what you get! If you want to invite STUPID people to your RESORT-held-seventeenth party, expect a whole lot of STUPID entertainment! I suppose that's not fair. They're not exactly STUPID. Just . . . challenged.

Note To Self: NEVER AGAIN.

I tried – futilely- to shift my legs to a better position, but Porsche's really aren't designed to hold a bunch of over excited adolescents. I was SQUASHED. And it didn't help that while my outfit was very pretty—Trelise Cooper white fashion sunglasses, a Green satin dress/wrap with a purple tie and Purple heels—It wasn't exactly practical, but what is the point I being practical if you don't look good? None at all, I told myself.

Even if I was slightly cold since we left Carmel early this morning. Ok, more than slightly.

BUT I LOOK GOOD!1

Then I had to go and ruin it by returning to dwell on my forthcoming weekend. I had to admit, I was not looking forward to this. At all. I dunno what gave me away, I used to have a certain talent for keeping the truth hidden—VERY handy—but completely out of the blue, or so I thought, Arabia reached over, with complete disregard for the other road users (She was driving, which is a risky business at best) to put her hand on my knee and say, "Melinda? Are you OK honey? You've been a little spaced since we left Carmel."

Over three hours of pure, undulated HELL in a Porsche. Jesus Christ, it was remarkable that I was still DRAWING BREATH.

"I'm fine," I said, with a smile that showed enough white teeth that I would have rivalled any toothpaste commercial, "Don't worry about me, you have a bigt three days to look forward to!"

I sighed, just knowing that all my future held for me was a long life as a bitter old cat lady. Personally, I might have to put in a good word to the big fella/fella's/female's upstairs on behalf of this ghost if he manages to off me.

Cats, carpet slippers and mobilised scooters, here I come. Well I'm almost there already, aren't I? Except, I'm only 17. Well, they do say you're only as old as you feel. And I feel like they should be nailing my coffin shut.

Huh. Morbid. But I'm just cranky because . . . actually, I dunno . . . P.M.S? Yeah. Blame it on the P.M.S, as usual.

**:Flashback: **

"He's ok, right? I mean, how do you know seeing me might not trigger one of his, you know. _Episodes . . ._" Sue me for asking. It's in my best interest to know.

"Oh darling," Grandma patted my shoulder. "You know, when Suzie tells you that Brad suffers from fits of insanity, she doesn't really mean it literally . . . she's just teasing you."

I WANT to believe you Grandma. I thought as I just rolled my eyes in response, In fact, I'd believe you whole-heartedly if it weren't for seeing the PROOF of his insanity with my own eyes.

THE GUYS STILL LIVES WITH HIS MOM AND DAD FOR CHRIST'S SAKE.

AND HE'S THIRTY-NINE YEARS OLD!

Seriously, Brad – or Dopey, as mom calls him, and I have to say, the term is quite catchy – is pushing forty and living with his mom and dad. Like that alone isn't _enough_ proof of lunacy?

Well what_ever_. Its not brads fault he's a whack job. And spending time in his company is a small price to pay in return for spending time at Grandma and Granddad's. I love it here, the house is so big and beautiful, and I love Grandma and granddad. They're so lovely. And even thought Andy's not my grandfather by blood, he's who I know as my grandad. My only granddad. Hey. I BELIEVED my dad when he said his entire family died in a fire. How was I to know that technically HE was the one who died in a fire? Well, the first time he died he was murdered, but meh, isn't it all in the detail? Either way, its still not something I can share. Too bad as well, it would be the most terrific war story. "Hi this is my dad, he's died twice, once he was murdered, and the second time he jumped out of a burning building, but then, my mom, who jumped too, shifted them back from about the 1800's. So yeah . . . any questions?"

Unfortunately, not going to happen.

Where was I? Oh yeah. Granddads. I wish I could have met my real granddad, but it was not to be. Can you miss someone you never knew? I think you can.

AND, when I stay here I can see as much of MAX as I like. I _love_ MAX, the old family dog. He's so COOL! No dogs at home for Melinda. _Nooooo_, just because dad wasn't quick enough on his feet once . . . and mom thinks his scar is hot . . .pah.

I'm only here for a few days though, dad's on a business trip in New York, and mom wanted to catch up with Aunt Gina, so I got dumped here. But it's OK! Because according to Slater's little theory, this ghost is 'shy' and that's why he hasn't made any public moves. Apparently, he's latched onto tormenting me, but has an issue with going public. So I was supposedly 'safe' with Grandma and Grandad.

Privately I think that's bullshit. Like safety isn't only an illusion. Take the blankets they give children with nightmares. "This is a security blankets darling. If you hold this blanket up, the monster can't get you." So what if little Tommy starts getting bullied at school, a _blanket _isn't going to stop a bully from hurting him. INSTEAD, take Tommy's blanket off him and take him to Karate. THAT will stop the bully better than a piece of dyed cloth.

Ha. Wonder if Brad had a security blankie. BET he did. Everyone has a weird relative hidden away somewhere. Mine just thinks he's a wrestler, that's all. It not better than thinking you're a snowman.

Well, maybe the snowman is a _little _better . . . no lycra.

But Dave and Jake are awesome, and so are Jake's wife Imajane and their kids. And David and Shannon are so sweet together.

The real issues started when Grandma told me I'd have to stay in mom's old room because Shannon – Dave's fiancée—was staying in the guest room. THAT was fine; in fact, it was ALL fine, until I opened the bedroom door.

I was struck immediately by how PINK it was. I mean, I've been in there before, but it just gets brighter! I don't know what happened there. Either mom went through this weird phase that she's neglected to tell anyone about, or SOMEONE – Grandma, I'm looking at YOU – got a little pink-happy.

But the pinkness wasn't the problem. It was what I could FEEL. I FELT its history. From the moment I walked in there, I knew something was different.

Maybe that's what Slater was banging on about. Maybe I have the great ability to see house history.

Now THERE'S a special talent.

Yeah, and Pamela Andersons boobs are real.

LIKE HELL THEY ARE.

But in mom's room, I could _swear_ I saw them.

_Dad was sitting in the window seat with Spike_—_and a copy of Abbie Hoffman's _Steal this Book—_Then door opened and mom came in the room. "You're awake," he said from the window seat._

"_Um," Mom said, edging over to the bed, "Yes I am."_

"_How do you feel?" Dad asked._

"_Me?' Mom asked, slightly stupidly. _

_Dad set the book own and looked at mom with an expressionless look on his face, "Yes you," he said, "How do you feel?" _

"_Fine," mom replied as she made it to the bed, she sat down and quickly thrust something under the pillow. "I feel great," she said, relaxing._

"_Good." Said dad. "We need to talk."_

_Mom paled as she jumped to her feet, suddenly looking way more panicked than she was a few moments ago. "You know what?" she said, very fast, "I don't want to talk. Is that OK? I really, really, don't want to talk. I am all talked out." _

_Dad lifted Spike off his lap and stood up, and mom just sucked in a huge breath and started rambling. "I'm just—Look" She said as dad took a step towards her, "I'm just going to give Cee Cee a call and maybe we can hit the beach or something because I really . . . I just need a day off."_

_Dad took another step towards mom. Now he was right in front of her. _

"_Especially," mom said significantly, "From talking. That's what I need time off from. Talking."_

"_Fine," Said dad, reaching up and cupping moms face in his hands, "we don't have to talk." _

_And then he leaned over and—_

HEY! There is NO WAY I can stay in this room now!

I slammed the door and sped down to the kitchen to see if Grandma would mind me staying in another room. I thundered down the stairs, nearly knocking max clean out of my way – I figure I'll apologise later, tore into the living room and started spilling my guts to grandma, who looked kind of alarmed at seeing her granddaughter come careening down the stairs then start babbling out a story, all at like, 90 mph.

Of course, when I say 'spilling my guts' I mean the abbreviated version of course. Because, the ghost thing? _So _not happening.

"Why, what's wrong with Suzie's one sweetie?" she said, all concerned. I felt so mean then. It was like telling her the room wasn't good enough! Which, including all its pink glory – I like pink! —It SO is!

Hee. Suzie . . .

Keeping on track here, how EXACTLY do I tell grandma I now have a fair idea of why mom spent so much time in her room? especially since she's looking at me all concerned. Yeah, how would that go? ' Hey grandma! Mom spent all her time making out with a dead guy!'

Again, _Not going to happen_.

"Oh, its not the room! I love the room! it's just, uh . . . I'm allergic to, um, its just . . . The window! I'm scared I'll fall out the window!"

She just stared blankly at me. And really, _can you blame her?_

"Yes!" I babble on, "You know, ever since mom, er, _fell_ – " God it kills me to say that. Its like he WON " – Out of my window, I've had a – a – PHOBIA Of windows." I smile and hope she just takes it for granted that I'm a bit of a fruit loop.

"Oh, well of course!" she said, not sounding at all like she thought me a fruit loop, which, I must say, is somewhat reassuring.

Did you know, having your grandma think you've lost your marbles is really depressing? No . . . you probably don't.

"You poor thing! Of course we can shift you honey. Jake's room and David's are free, and well, if you _really_ want to stay in Brad's – " she said, wrinkling her nose, "I'm sure we can figure something out-"

"NO! I mean, I'm fine, would I be able to stay in Dave's?"

I figure, and no offence Dave, I love you to pieces, but as cute as your year book pictures were, I got the impression that Jake got a lot more action in high school than you did, so I think your room's safer.

"David's? Of course, I'll get Andy to give you a hand shifting your stuff. Although, he might be a bit difficult about how many bags you have . . ." she said teasingly, "So why don't I just do it myself?"

"Grandma. Three bags. Three! I can manage them . . . although—" what can I say? I like being fussed over by my grandma; I'm not that FEAKISH. "—Can I just have you for the conversation."

But then again, I mused as I discovered a whole lot of science journals under Doc's bed, it could be worse. I was expecting Porn. Then again. Dave's engaged. To a girl he's been seeing since high school. AM I SAFE NOWHERE?

Then Arabia Called. About her birthday. To remind me. As if I'd forgotten. Which I hadn't.

"For the last time Arabia, NO, I don't have a clue. I told you, I'm not even at home. I'm at grandma's." Arguing with Arabia when she's excited is really pretty futile you know. Put plainly, she just doesn't _care_ what you have to say when its not what she want's to hear. She gets that from her dad.

It's true. Her – Arabic – mother died when Arabia was young, and her dads one of those people who make SO MUCH MONEY You wonder why they haven't got hit men after them already, but the guts of it is, he doesn't have a whole lot of spare time.

Harsh? Me? These are Arabia's words.

So there I sat, on Doc's bed, my cell phone to my ear, idly flicking through one of the science journals, and I don't think I have to add that I couldn't make head or tail of it.

"WELL? Come on! I want to know! The Pink or the Green?" Arabia herself yelled in my ear.

Oh my GOD Arabia. I DON'T CARE. I mean to say, ARE THE RAINFORESTS GOING TO BENEFIT FROM THIS DECISION?

NO.

ARE THE ENDANGERED WHALES GOING TO BENEFIT?

NO.

ARE THE THIRD WORLD COUNTRIES GOING TO BENEFIT?

NO.

Note to self: Sponsor a child. Save some whales. And SAVE THE TREES!

I would tell her all these things that her billion-dollar daddy would be better off putting his money towards, if I wasn't scared of their maid. Truly. She shouldn't have been a maid; she should have been a sumo wrestler. If my head case uncle can do it . . .

Ok, for Arabia's seventeenth, her dad's hired and ENTIRE RESORT for her for THREE WHOLE DAYS.

—Oh my GOD. What the hell is EXTRA CELLULAR DIGESTION? JESUS! IT SOUNDS LIKE A FORM OF ALIEN FEEDING!

Time to stop reading the science journal. But one last thing . . . Who knew there were such things as NOBLE GAS'S? Not me, that's for sure.

Anyway. I've come to a conclusion about Arabia's dad. HE IS OFF HIS ROCKER. Well, I suppose there is _some _logic in it. Like, what HOUSE is going to hold Arabia on a birthday high? So, problem solved, her dad is PAYING the resort staff to look after everyone. And just to add; the staff have strict instructions on sex, drugs and alcohol. How do I know this? Arabia called and asked, pretending to be her father's secretary. Which actually worked, because she claimed her computer crashed and she lost all information. Including details about "Mr Lawrence's daughter's birthday celebration." Etc.

But you have to imagine this being said in a REALLY nasal voice, courtesy of Arabia's years at Drama school. It was hilarious. Funnier even than that video I saw one time of a dog skidding on wet lino, and let me tell you, THAT was funny.

But Arabia was touched that her dad found the time to _completely _– which he did, right down to details – organise her birthday and then not tell her until a couple of days ago, as a surprise. Although, that may have actually been because he forgot, but why look a gift horse in the mouth?

Anyway. Pays to be informed about these sorts of things. According to Arabia, how are you supposed to break the rules if you don't know them? Not that she has any plans for sex, drugs or alcohol. For one, she'll hire the entire STATE when she wants to do the nasty. I don't know about Scott though. Personally, I think he'd be happy in a wardrobe. Any wardrobe.

Note to self: Never let Scott near my wardrobe.

And secondly, Arabia would FLIP if she caught anyone with Drugs or alcohol. It's a personal thing. Her Mother . . . car crash . . . other driver drunk . . .

You figure it out.

Compassion. It's compassion. I think everyone understands Arabia well enough to know it would be more than their ass's worth to bring alcohol or drugs.

But cutting to the chase, I haven't packed yet.

Note to self: get on that.

I haven't actually clued mom and dad in on the whole thing yet, but I gave them a rough outline so . . . that'll do. Not my fault. They're away. I'm still here. You don't have to know what extra cellular digestion is to figure it out.

I wish I could take Fee with me to the resort, though. I miss Fee already, and I've been here for what? A few days? I asked grandma if I could bring her—Fee—but she said it might not be good for max. At his age, all the excitement, you know?

I miss Fee. I almost miss SPIKE. And Spike doesn't even like me very much. And he DEFINITELY does not appreciate my attempts to bond with him, because I could count on one hand the amount of times spike's actually let me near him without taking a swipe at me, and still have plenty of fingers left. And most of the times Spike's left me alone would have been when he's asleep. Or dozy with anaesthetic. (That was the first time Spike's ever come off worse in a fight. And it was with the – swinging – cat door. Spike just doesn't understand the _concept _of swinging cat doors.) And if theirs one thing Fee and I have learnt, its: DON'T TRY AND MOVE SPIKE. If he wants to sit in front of the fire, for gods' sake, LET HIM. If he wants to jump on the counter, call for reinforcements! (Dad.) DO NOT ATTEMPT TO REMOVE HIM YOURSELF! Fee and myself now consider ourselves quite educated in the ways of our house hierarchy. SPIKE IS AT THE TOP.

NO EXCEPTIONS.

Moving on. You can't really tell someone the reason that your not all that excited about their party, (And whether they choose the pink swimsuit or the green) Is because you don't actually want to go to their party. Because that's just rude. And mean. And, and that would make me a BAD FRIEND.

And I don't want to be a BAD FRIEND. I love Arabia, I truly do. I don't really know what it is.

But I do know that it was my anti BAD FRIEND side that prompted me to say, "I think the pink would be great Arabia. It's a nicer cut."

Oh, if the whales could see me now!

Note to self: Pack _blue_ swimsuit.

"Oh, your right! I knew I could count on you . . . eventually. Tell me, what's up? You sounded . . . strained."

Oh really? As in 'I don't really want to go to your party – strained' or 'I just swallowed a rice cracker whole - Strained'

"Nothing Arabia," I said, hoping I didn't sound too fake, "I was choking on a rice cracker."

"EWW. Moving on. I'm really glad both you and Alanna can come. I was begging to think Alanna's parents were never going to give."

"I know. But its only because they love her."

"Its totally sweet. If mom were here she'd be having thoughts about even letting me have this party. Anyway." Arabia continued. "I've got to go. I promised Alanna she could borrow my _Stefan_ handbag."

'The Black one? Arabia, that's not a handbag." I said with a laugh. "That's a body bag."

"Its NOT!" she said, outraged. "I've explained this time and time again, just because its BIG and BLACK doesn't mean it's a body bag!"

"How do you know? Before _Stefan_ was a designer he might have worked at a morgue. Giselle what's-her-name--You know, the one who was in TAXI and had the gun and the really short skirt—anyway, she's a MODEL and was discovered at McDONALDS. How do you know _Stefan's_ not a—"

She hung up.

Leaving me way more cheerful than when I picked up the phone. Who knew Arabia's guest list? Maybe she wouldn't invite EVERONE. Maybe she'd conveniently forget about N—

No one.

And we're moving on now.

Speaking of moving on, I haven't heard from either of my ghosts lately. Not that I'm too torn up over not seeing the ghost I know as 'FAT, OLD AND BALD', but Stacy? Haven't heard from her in a while. I wonder if she even knows I'm here.

And its not like I have a tracker on her. That would be . . . weird. I really have no way of talking to her when I want to. I can't even be all—

And then who materialised in front of me wearing the biggest scowl I've ever seen and tapping her foot impatiently?

Merlin.

_No_, Stacy.

"Jesus!" I yelled, dropping my phone on the ground as I jumped in to the air. Well, its not like I haven't dropped it before. I've actually lost count. "What the hell's going on here?"

"Well, YOU called ME, so I don't think _I'm_ the right person to ask."

You might have thought it impossible for someone in batgirl boots to be a snob. You've obviously never met Stacy, dead or alive.

You lucky, lucky person.

"I didn't call you! I didn't even speak. I just thought of—"

"Well I'm here now!"

"NO! I didn't notice!" I snapped back, "OBVIOUSLY I can see that!"

Once again, she'd been away too long. I'd forgotten who I was talking to. You forget once, and that's ALL the space she needs. Even when she was alive. If you didn't snap back she'd just walk all over you when she was in a mood.

And I think being dead out her in a permanent mood.

"Stacy, stop being a bitch." I said, getting off the bed and looking her straight in the eye. "God, SUCK IT UP ALREADY."

She looked quite affronted, but I didn't give her a chance to respond because I continued with "I understand you've got a chip on your shoulder over the whole 'being dead' thing, But what do you want me to do? Wave my magic wand and chant 'Bibbidi Bobbidi Boo'? NEWSFLASH, it's NOT going to happen!."

And to my surprise, she laughed. A real LAUGH. I sat down on the bed again, wondering what the hell was going on. "Melinda," she smiled, "Get off your high horse. I'm not still pissed about being dead, like SOME others I could mention—"

Dying must be a great way to meet people.

Who knew?

"—I was just in the middle of something."

"Oh yeah?" I said, with a smirk, "Who is _he_? I know your idea of 'something.' You just can't leave them alone, even when you kick the bucket."

"Ha ha, No." She replied, settling herself down on the floor. "This one's yours."

"Mine?" I said, confused. "Whose mine?"

"The GUY." She rolled her eyes, always something made much more impressive by the eye makeup she always wore. Truly. It's definitely enough to keep the little kids away. FAR, FAR AWAY. "Nick." She rolled her eyes, _again._ "I was chatting to Nick. He's not to bad actually—"

I swallowed and tried to look like I wasn't pissed.

Which was . . . difficult.

As in trying to swallow rice crackers WHOLE difficult.

Note to self: give up on the rice crackers already.

Why was I even pissed? NOT because I like him. No way. That is SO not it . . . it must be because instead of talking to me, one of her so called best friends, she goes and talks to someone who she routinely ignored when she was alive.

Must be.

"You went and talked to him?" . . . Rice cracker style difficult . . . "Why?"

"No, he talked to _me_. Just about my – the night I – when I died."

"And did you each any earth shattering conclusions that you hadn't already figured out?"

And there goes that marvellous thing called tact . . .

"Not really. But I don't know what you have against him. He's not as bad as we used to think."

"Whatever. Don't tell me about Nick Slater. I know all I will ever want to. And then a bit more."

"Oh no." She said, waggling her finger. "I'd love to fill you in on a few things, but you wouldn't believe me anyway. But trust me. The answers right in front of you. Just stop trying to turn it into something else."

"Cut the cryptic crap." I said and lay back on the bed. All this was giving me SUCH a headache. "Can you just tell me?

"No I can't. But I'm really proud of you Melinda. All this stuff . . . you weren't ready for any of it. And yet, you always fight your way through."

I was moved. Truly moved. Well, literally, I was still on the bed. But figuratively? I was like . . . over by the window.

I'm so funny.

"I mean," Stacy continued, "You've had so much thrown on you, so quickly. Then there was all that with Brian . . . "

I didn't even bother asking how she knew about that, I just closed my eyes and figured I'd just blame it on the ghost grapevine.

Stupid Ghost Grapevine

"And your mom . . . I felt so bad about that. I loved your mom. Maybe even more than I loved my own." She trailed off slowly, lost in thought.

Well, we all have our moments, I thought to myself. But then again, Stacy and Her mom never really got on.

"Stace?" I said gently, sitting up and actually opening my eyes, "What is it?"

"I. . . I don't know. It's just a feeling. I truly don't know." She said honestly. "Something's just nagging at me. But that might not have anything to do with mom. That's the thing about being dead. You don't get full stories about things. You just get feelings and hushed whispers . . . Then all the whispers and feelings get mixed up and you get confused." She looked up at me with a sad smile. "So I guess that while you see things you never saw alive, you miss other things as well . . . So while your perspective gets clearer in some ways. . . It gets cloudier in others . . . Auugh! I don't know! Am I making any sense whatsoever?"

I just nodded, lost in thought.

"Its like in art! Remember when we had to throw paint at canvas then sit and stare for hours trying to make a picture out of out paint splodges. It's like that. And I just _can't _see the PICTURE . . . Anyway." She shook her head, "I'm rambling. Funny. Nick was trying to get me to loosen up and tell him things like this for hours, and then I talk to you for a few moments and it all comes rushing out. There's something about you Melinda."

"Yeah well . . . Don't worry Stace." I said, deciding to go for a joke. "It's just the usual psychological instabilities."

Wait . . . that's no joke.

That's true.

"That's something else I didn't sort out until after I died." Stacy persevered, "YOU. Now myy old impression of you suddenly has all these fresh insights, and I don't know how to sort them all out to get that clear picture. That's what led me to Slater. He said he could help me. Like all these things I can do now . . . "

Dave's door unexpectedly opened and started shuddering on its hinges, like it was trying to rip free. Faster and faster—

"That'll do thanks!" I said hurriedly. "I don't need another demo. Your last was good enough! _I_ remember the mirror episode quite clearly thanks."

"Yeah . . . How are they dealing?"

By 'they' I assume she meant Arabia and Alanna. "They're good. Well, Arabia's better than that, she's over the moon."

"Figures. Birthday bash, right?"

"On the money."

It's been ages since Stacy and I had a decent gossip. It was great. We chatted for what seemed like minutes, although it was more like hours. It was almost like pre-murder days.

Almost. But not quite.

THEN, not long after Stacy had left, I got another call. I'm telling you. Grand Central Station. . . through my mobile.

I dived for the cell phone in question, completely knocking ALL the gibberish journals in the process of my dive for my phone. I tell you, I could SO be an athletic superstar.

"Hello, Melinda here." I answered, still marvelling at my great long jump.

"Hey Melinda." drawled a deep voice right in my ear. I was given such a fright, I almost dropped the phone. Again.

But, completely off topic, Nick _does _have a really nice voice. It's really deep and rough.

The word 'seductive' is not too far from mind either.

"Umm . . . hi."

This was about the time I started to remember the last time I heard Nick's voice. It was something like me screaming at him about how I could take care of myself, them him rebutting all the times I HADN'T managed to take care of myself, then I started making an ass of myself about how I felt about Brian . . .

Yeah. Something like that.

"You've already said hello." Nick said, sounding like he was finding something really funny about our situation.

I dunno what he had to laugh about, I was actually mortified! I never thought I'd be in the situation where I'd be considering apologising to nick. And yet HERE I AM.

"Infierno sangriento." **(A/N: "Bloody Hell.")**

"Yes . . ." Nick said smoothly, "I have a theory about that. You usually start off in another language when you're flustered. So what is that's making tyou so flusterd at the moment? Little old me?"

I didn't say anything. Really, what COULD I have said?

"Now Melinda," he continued, "Why are you so quiet? What have you got to say that you're not telling me?"

"You'd be surprised." I said without thinking.

DAMN! What happened to THINKING before opening your MOUTH Melinda?

I should truly just stop talking, but he just PROVOKES me into answering. Asshole.

"Really?" he said, sounding way more interested in my little slip of tongue than I would have liked. "Go on."

I have to admit. I liked hearing his voice. Just the way he SOUNDS on the phone. All husky, and yes, SEDUCTIVE.

Oh god. Well I've admitted it now. Might as well keep digging myself a hole. He's actually making my skin feel all tight and tickly, like I can recall other times when he was speaking this close to my ear, only then his breath was tickling my neck as well.

And that was JUST HIS VOICE!

IMAGINE WHAT—

WHOA. Note to self: RENEW PRESCRIPTION.

"Uh, no, I'm all right thanks."

"I'll leave it for another day then, shall I?" said the voice.

Well I'm already in deep now. I practically just admitted Nick has a sexy voice, and in the past I've DEFINITELY admitted that Nick has a sexy body, and I'll admit right now that some of the things Nick _says _are UNDENIABLY sexy . . .

I'VE JUST COMPLETELY ADMITTED THAT I THINK NICK IS SEXY.

Jeez. I'm really going for broke today.

"Melinda? Are you still there?"

"Uhhhh . . ."

I'VE LOST THE ABILITY TO SAY ANYTHING OTHER THAN 'uhhh . . .' or 'ummm', or 'er'.

God, I SUCK.

"Aw, Melinda. Is the sound of my voice making you nervous?"

"How did you—" . . . Oops.

Note to self: just SHUT UP.

"Busted. I AM making you nervous."

Yeah, among other things. But he doesn't need to know that.

"Anyway." he said smoothly, "I'll get right down to it shall I? Oh, wait. I'll give you a moment to contemplate all dirty jokes . . ."

Oh my god. Will he just stop it? He KNOWS he's won. He KNOWS he's making me uncomfortable.

And I think he knows I think he's sexy. But then, that's a pretty safe bet. Every girl at the mission academy still pauses when he walks past. Not including the Nuns. Hang on, now that I think of it . . .

Eww.

"Get on with it." I managed to say, twisting the phone cord so tightly around my finger my circulation was starting to suffer.

I wish I could hate Nick's voice. But I can't. Believe me. I tried. So I've had to settle for hating him. And at time's like this . . . I can't even remember why I DO hate him.

He laughed. A deep, throaty sound. "Ok. It's simple really. I wanted to know if you were going to Arabia's resort thing?"

"Yes." Guess whose been reduced to single syllable answers because she can't choke out anything more?

Too easy. _You're_ not getting a prize if you guess right.

"Oh? What did your mommy and daddy say, since you currently seem to be number one on the ghost most wanted list."

_True . . . _just another reason for me to leave them clueless.

"You know Nick," I said, suddenly finding myself capable of speech if I get to take a stab at Nick in the process, "I seem to always be saying this, but I CAN take care of myself. Why is that so hard to believe?"

"Is this the part where I bring up the time I had to pull you out of the way of a speeding car when you were just _walking to school_? Or the part where—"

"Ok, that was just bad luck." I admitted reluctantly.

"Yeah. And you ATTRACT it."

I'm guessing that has nothing to do with how short my skirt is. Because I also know I manage to attract trouble when I make THAT particular mistake. Yes Nick. I noticed where YOUR eyes were on THAT 'special' day. If I remember correctly, that was your first day at the Mission Academy. And you were assigned to be shown around by a girl in a micro mini. Aka: Me. And would you also remember the part where I told you could take your pick-up lines and cram them up your ass.

Ah, good times, good times.

"Yeah? Nick I seem to attract a lot of things, most of them unwanted." HA! BURN! "Now, it was nice talking to you," I said frostily, "But if you don't mind . . ."

"Such a sweet little pussy cat . . ." he teased.

"Huh?"

Really. Huh? All I could think of to explain that was that time he told me I looked like that chick from the Pussycat dolls. Was that supposed to be a COMPLIMENT? Has he NOTICED that one of them looks like a man? Well, a few actually . . . that red head . . . yeah, I'd be watching her. And did you know that they were all originally strippers? They were. I wonder if Nick knows that?

"Nick, if this is another reference to my ass . . ."

"Well now that you mention it," he said slyly. "I did have another few remarks . . . but experience has taught me you wouldn't like them much."

I was contemplating telling him to say them anyway, but I decided that might just be tempting fate. And I'm never one to tempt fate.

Yeah. Right. And Little Bo Peep was a stoner.

"Right . . . well, uh, I guess . . ."

"I'll see you this weekend Melinda." He said, and then _click_.

Which meant he'd hung up. A meaning I wasn't sure of was the 'I'll see you this weekend.' How would he see me this weekend? I was going to Arabia's. Unless . . .

He's NOT going to Arabia's too?

Shit. I cannot believe I wasn't smart enough to see what Nick was REALLY getting at.

He beat me AGAIN. ¡MALDIGALO! **(A/N: 'Damn!)**

**:End Flashback:**

No-one can say MY weekend was boring. But then again, I see dead people on regular basis, so its not like I'm ever going to have a BORING week.

It's so unfair.

Where's MY boring weekend, eh God?

Eh, Goddess?

Is this the part where I get all Emo/gothic depressive and start moping and going on about 'is anyone out there?'

And start cutting my wrists.

Oh, I'm sorry. That was mean.

Sorry Emo's. Sorry Goths. But you know what, I'm NOT sorry to the Emoths. They're the one's that are WANNABE Goths/Emo's.

EMOTHS are the ones who just start flicking at their wrists with a blunt craft knifed and then _accidentally-_on purpose show everybody their so called slashes that are really only scratches.

Oh my god. I'm so sorry. I truly don't know what is with me today!

Just as I was thinking this, Arabia pipes up with "Hey. Melinda. What is _with _you today gurl?"

"Yeah." Scott is quick to add. "Who peed in your cornflakes baby?"

Dork. "That would be funny," I snapped, "If I hadn't a SAID IT FIRST! Yeah, _Scott, _I COINED THAT PHRASE, '_BABY'_! If you weren't such a dim-witted TROLL you would KNOW THAT!"

All of a sudden the singing of 99 BOTTLES OF BEER ON THE WALL stopped. So I _knew_ the shit was about to ht the fan.

"Oh my god, Scott!" I sad quickly, twisting around in my seat to grab his hand, "I'm so sorry! It just came out. I didn't mean it! Truly! I don't think you're thick!" and then I had to go and put my foot in my mouth COMPLETELY, "I mean, I like you, I really do! I actually like you a lot!"

. . . Aww crap.

I dropped his hand.

"Hold on. Arabia, I didn't mean that. Honestly. You know I'm not trying to steal Scott. That would be ridiculous. So ridiculous, it would be funny! . . . ha ha?"

Blank faces.

"Okay . . . I'm going to crawl into a hole now . . ." I said, and hid my face in my hands, shrinking as far towards the door as possible. And yes, I absolutely DID consider bailing.

They still stared at me. I mean, I was riding shotgun, so it was kind of hard to move into a more inconspicuous seat.

"Melinda." Arabia said flatly. "What is WITH you?"

"Now that is a good question." I mumbled. "Anyone know the answer?"

I think I heard Scott mumble "Cornflakes" but I decide to let it slide.

"Because," I continued flatly, "I don't even know the answer. I know who blame though. Nick. _Nick. _Its always freaking NICK." At this, the people in the back who had been eagerly leaning forward no doubt to hear all the details of why I was loosing it, leaned forward even further, probably hoping for the inside scoop.

"Yeah." I muttered. "Yeah. It's always his fault, isn't it? I bet, if I asked all of you in this car about him, HALF of you would—you know what? I don't even know why I'm saying this. I'm sorry. Carry on singing. Whatever. I don't care. Did you hear me!" I said, getting slightly hysterical, "KEEP SINGING!"

A carload of teens sat and stared at me. Still. Staring. Just . . . staring.

Pathetic. I was practically BEGGING for more butchered rendition's of 99 bottles of beer on the wall.

I couldn't even begin to fathom why I was letting all these people in on the stuff that was bothering me. I liked to think of myself as a closed book. WHAT HAPPENED TO THE CLOSED BOOK _Melinda_?

I spared a thought for these people. Why are they so interested? So their own existence's SUCK so much they have to _leech_ the life from mine? What the hell is with that? Why am _I _the most written about person in our school papers gossip column? Its not like that's a title I WANT!

Well, I'm not the sole topic. Nick Slater's name was also mentioned more times than I could count. Usually featured with his latest bed-buddy.

Jerk.

Tearing myself away from my thoughts – and trying to avoid the stares I was getting – I happened to look out the window in time to see us puling up. So this must be the hellhole I was supposed to waste three whole days of my life at. And it's not like I have days to spare, seeing as I have a ghost who would really LOVE to spill my blood personally, I think my number is pretty much UP!

And you know what? This place—Ferndale—looked pretty gorgeous for a hellhole.

_But the most beautiful is always the most dangerous._

__

_**The Daughter Of.**_

****

**Thanks for reading guys. I do it for you. What's that? You'd like to repay me? Why it's simple! Click the purple review button and leave me a lovely review!**

**Now, for the people who did for my last chapter. Possibly the crappiest chapter ever written on fan **

**But knowing me, I'll probably take my own crown. Joy. **

**Now, for my stalker wall of fame. **

**Dearest **Booklover777 **Thankyou! I like all Gods, Tamora Pierce just names some of them for me. Lol. I really love the gods in her books, and also the names. I constantly pich names from those books. Eg, Pauls girlfriend and the raka cook in 'Tricksters Queen'. But anyway, Stay tuned!**

The Salad is Dressing **oh, how I love your name!**

**Darling **aYmIn, **You may put the heavy stuiff you are pron to chucking at me DOWN, I have an update! And I actually had to research shifters the other day. It was HARD WORK. Y'all better love me. And yeah, Nick was jealous. And yeah. Melinda will figure that out once she stops thinking about herself. And I bet her mommy was the type to teach her to "attack where it hurts, go for the balls darling!" lol. THANKS HEAPS FOR REVOOING. **

**Thank you **Catty Rose, **I'm so glad you managed to stop freaking out over the whole ARRANGED MARRIDGE thing. heart Rate back to normal darling? Well, it won't be for very long, I have some lovely Fluff planned! Hehehehehe.**

**Oh **Mary, **How silly of me, I should have known where the winged rabid monkeys came from. Your fan club, of course! Derf is great. I LIKE IT. And, YAY FOR MARY RULER OF ALL . . . CHOCOLATE! Lol. And I loved "**peace out my homie slice dog G dizzle fo sho. update and you get yo props. word.**" NOICE.**

**Thank you **Sevvy! **You reveiwd even though you'r computer was BROKE. That's so Nice! I'm tearing up . . . Lol. Thank you, so much. **

**AND LASTLY:**

**YOU ROCK **Oh-great-aunty-who-is-currently-nameless-because-we-never-did-get-around-to-naming-you, **Thanks for reading. I will admit, It sometimes does get weird you reading this then throwing random bits back at me the next ay, but I love you for it. You rock Girlfrind, thanks for keeping this story alive!**

**Thanks ladies! **

**Love and kisses;**

**Mariah**

**XX00XX**


	11. Bullseye

**Howdy to y'all! 'Bout time for a disclaimer, dontcha' reckon?**

**DISCLAIMER: I, Mariah, have nothing witty to write in the way of eradicating myself of all claim to the original mediator characters, so I'll just come out and say it. They're not mine. **

**That being dealt with, I'm back! In case you hadn't noticed. A giant thanks to the usual people, **Double-oh-nine-and-a-half, **Who is currently abroad on an ISLAND, Lucky lass, and **Chocolate-chip-surprise, **Who wrote THE BEST EVER RULES FOR HARRY POTTER FANFICTION, called **'come one, come all, fanfiction rules.'

**Gold. Anyway. Kisses to all who reviewed, Dagger glares to those who didn't, (Kidding. Well, pretty much.) I love you all and thanks for your beautiful reviews, and I'll just warn you now, BEWARE bad spelling/grammar. **Adeline **brought this to my attention, and she's right! That being said, I'm pleased to present you with . . .**

Bullseye

"Hit me." I mumbled.

I was sitting in my hotel room bed, trying to persuade Alanna to get me some more coffee. I'd been doing so all morning. And afternoon. And all—For a long time, lets leave it at that. Eventually she'd give in and get me some more coffee . . . and then I'd start again.

Except this time it was taking longer. Well this time she couldn't use the old, 'Go and unpack your bags.' Ruse. I'd DONE IT. Well . . . more like Alanna—in a totally uncharacteristic move—Had tipped my suitcase out on the floor when I didn't unpack it _fast_ enough.

If I hadn't been so pissed of at Nick, then I would have noticed sooner that something was wrong.

But no, I just wanted my fucking coffee.

I swung my legs over the bed and sat up, giving Alanna my best give-me-coffee-because-im-so-cute face.

"For the last time Melinda," Alanna was frustrated, "I said NO!"

"But it's good for me!" I whinged.

"Melinda. You've had enough coffee to KILL any normal person." Alanna snapped, "And," she added bitterly, "You're not just _anyone._"

"All right, all right." I said grudgingly, knowing when I was licked.

Does _anyone _see dead people? Does _anyone _get stalked by freakish dead people? Does _anyone_—

Check and Mate.

"Yeah but I'm insane." I said. "Trust me, I'm so over it."

"You're not insane." Alanna said irately.

"Yeah." I quipped. "That's what the little voice in my head says too. Anyway. Who peed in your cornflakes?" I said snootily. Burn Scott, Buuurrrn.

"Melinda, cut it out!" Alanna practically hollered.

"I'm sorry," I apologised, "I'm just going CRAZY!"

"Well you had a running start!" Alanna screamed.

"Alanna?" hesitantly, "Are you – are you feeling ok? Like, is this PMS?"

"And just what are you trying to insinuate MELINDA? That I'm DEPRESSED? That I'm just another FLIPPANT teen, happy one minute DEPRESSIVE the next?"

Trying to get a word in edgeways I said "oh, no, its just—"

"Or are you right this minute categorizing me as a SHALLOW BIMBO?"

"I'm sorry!" I squeaked, "Whatever I did, I'm sorry! And you know, blame Arabia for putting you in Daniels car. I swear I had nothing to do with it! I'm INNOCENT!"

Huh. That'll be the day. No one in their right mind would ever believe me as innocent. In fact, even those NOT in their right mind would have a hard time believing me innocent.

I watched Alanna's face when I mentioned Daniel and the look that flashed over her face told me all I needed to know.

I got up and put my arms around her. "You know," I said softly. "It happens to the best of us. There's nothing you can do to avoid it. Its just BAD LUCK."

"I love him." She sniffed.

"I know sweetie. And I know it sucks. It's such a terrible, terrible waste."

"Melinda!" she said with a little sob, "I'm not upset because I'm in love, I'm not YOU. You'd rather throw yourself off a bridge than admit that _you're_ in love."

Thinking it was a definite possibility, I smiled. "You're so sweet Alanna, I was just teasing. And I know you're not me. Lucky you. You don't know how lucky you are."

"But that's just it!" she was sounding hysterical, "I'm NOT you!"

"I . . . I know," I was confused. "I said that."

"Daniel probably wishes I was, but I'm not! I'm not a _knockout _like you, I'm not as _fearless_ as you, I'm not as _confident _as you—"

My immediate thought was that she'd been smoking. Weed waffles. Hah. Then I figured out she was just panicking in general. She's so sweet, you just have to love her.

"Shut up Alanna. Daniel doesn't really think that and you know it. You're being silly and I think you know that as well."

"Move over Dr Phil," Alanna mumbled.

"So true," I said with a smile, "And I'm right too. Isn't that great? I love being right."

"Yes, I know, I'm being ridiculous," she said with a sniff. "And," she suddenly grinned, "I did tell him he wouldn't have a show in hell of holding you down. There's only one guy who'd even have a chance . . ."

I stopped smiling. "Shut up." I said, glad for the not totally unexpected knock at the door.

And I don't think it's someone bringing my coffee. Proving me right, Daniels voice called out; "Alanna? Are you there? We need to talk."

"You need to talk all right," I mumbled to Alanna as I called to Daniel to come in, "You need to tell him he's being an ass and you have decided to with hold all sexual favours for a month."

Alanna looked scandalised. So did Daniel as he heard the last bit of my little statement. "Cheerio now!" I called as I left with a wink.

God those two owe me, I thought as I carefully shut the door behind me. None of them really have any real problem. They both know they love each other and Alanna panicked. Loser. They are so perfect though. You know those couples you seem to see everywhere—more often when your own personal relationships are I shreds, have you noticed that? —Who look so _right _together, holding hands, looking at each other all worshipfully . . .

Usually I hate couples like that. I'm usually the first to bet that he's an alcoholic gambler whose fucking her best friend and She's a secret Crack whore, but that's usually just spite.

I KNOW Alanna's not a secret crack whore and Daniel's not an alcoholic philanderer.

Ha. Alanna's in LOVE, Alanna's in LOVE . . .

Her life is so over.

My cell phone started vibrating furiously on my way down the stairs and I hurriedly flipped it open, glad I'd thought to grab it before leaving the room—"Hello?" I sung into the phone.

"Melinda? Hi darling, its Stacy's mom."

I froze when she said who it was. Why was she ringing me?

This would also be a bad time to be reminded of the song, right? Thought so. But it's true. Stacy's mom really does have it going on. She's hot for her age. Which is like, almost fifty.

"Oh . . . Hi." I said in surprise, moving over on the stairway so I could lean on the wall . . . haven't talked to her since Stacy died . . . Wow. Awkward . . .

"How are you honey? Listen, I've missed you! Anyway," she said, without waiting for a reply, "Just wanted to catch up with you, see how you were going, I hardly see you anymore! You really should come around sometime!"

"Oh. Sure Mrs—"

"Its _Ms_." Stacy's mom said, suddenly cold. "Besides, I'm always telling you, call me Lisa."

Women are so funny about that nowadays, aren't they? Its _Ms_, NOT _Mrs. _I could understand it if the ex husband in question was a loser, but Stacy's dad was terrific. He loved Stace, so, so much. He was torn apart at her funeral. He split on Stacy's mom straight after. And the look he gave Stacy's mom . . . it looked like he blamed her. That look, it's the look of anguish that's tearing—no, _ripping—_a person apart. He looked like he'd been shot, and was waiting to die. It was a mix of unendurable grief and HATE.

"Right." I dragged my ass back to the present. "Sorry . . . Anyway. I'd love to. I'm sure Arabia would love a visit—"

"No." she said. "Arabia wont be coming,"

Well then WHOSE GOING TO BE MY COMPANION? HUH? Don't do this to me . . .

I'm shitting bricks here . . .

"How about . . ." she said calmly, "that Slater boy?"

"Nick?" I asked, surprised, "I suppose so . . . why?"

"Oh, I like to see the young people having a good time, that's all, darling!"

I started to speak up about how Nick was a big kid and could make his own decision, so YOU go chat to him, but then I thought, _screw it, _if I go down, so does he, and I said, "I'm sure Nick would love to . . . Lisa."

"Great! Oh, sorry honey, I must dash, buh bye!" she hung up.

Okay. I thought, snapping my phone closed and continuing down the stairs, that's nice. I wondered idly what exactly I was going to do now. It was evening, I was way buzzed up on caffeine and I had nothing to do.

A recipe for disaster if I ever did hear one. I bet most murders are committed this way. And just as a little fun fact, if I had to murder someone I know whom I'd choose. I'll give you a hint.

His name is spelt N-I-C-K-S-L-A-T-E-R.

I mean, the resort—Ferndale—was cool, I just wish I could say the same for the people here.

I decided to head back up to my room and get changed. They were having a dance down in the ballroom and I wanted to dance some emotion off. Or I might explode.

Dancing is my life. Seriously, I want to be a dancer. I love the music.

Finding our room empty – Alanna and Daniel must have made up. Hee hee. Although. I don't think makeup sex was on Alanna's mind. She wants to be married first.

Personal decision, you know?

What to wear . . . what to wear . . .

Purple. When in doubt—you know how it goes.

Perfect. Purple baby doll dress with my stonewash cuffed short shorts and bare legs. Daring, but I was in such a mood.

Shoes . . .

PERFECT. Purple stilettos. Risky, but they go really well with my jade anklet.

Go the gypsy's.

My hair was in its usual IN YOUR FACE style and I added tint of eye mousse (Purple, makes my eyes look weird. In a good way.) After some consideration flicked some chap stick over my lips and was ready to go.

Hot, I hope. Whatever. I have a style. Its called if you got it, FLAUNT IT. And if you DON'T GOT IT; don't' come crying to me. That's a lie. Every body has at least feature that's totally gorgeous.

If it's your EARS then so be it! Buy some flickin' earrings!

Downstairs was looking awesome. Seriously. HUGE ballroom. Dancing. Caterers. HUGE sound system. Dancing.

I am so there.

Besides. A quick scan of the room told me what I needed to know. I can't brood over Nick if I'm A: busy and B: he's nowhere near me.

Well, ok, mainly B.

It didn't take long for Arabia to find me, two, maybe three steps in the door?

Excellent, no time for brooding! And I love not having time for brooding!

"Scott just _can't_ dance!" Arabia wailed, "So you're it!" she dragged me to what would have been the centre of the room, and was giving me no chance to think.

Dancing. Just . . .dancing.

Ah, now this is my future career, right here. Well not _here_ but you know. I'll be a dancer. Or a choreographer. Whatever. I want to dance. If a strippers my only option the so be it. Pole dancing classes . . . just watch me go!

Arabia was having fun, I was having fun, we were ALL HAVING FUN!

But . . . there is no way Nicks going to be here, right? I mean, the whole thing would just be way predictable and cliché.

I hate predictable. I hate cliché.

Nick won't be here, he wont—

. . . wistful thinking maybe? I asked myself, contradictorily.

Ok. It's fine. I'm fine. I just have to forget Nick. Forget him.

Then I bump into him.

Truly. I was QUITE happy with Arabia – well, more or less, he can't read my mind – and then I actually bump into him?

WHAT ARE THE CHANCES? About a hundred people in this room and I bump into NICK?

_Fuck the world, Fate's a bitch. _

I ignored him. Seriously. I did.

"Hey Melinda!" Arabia shouted over the music, "Have you danced with Nick yet? I'm telling you, you two look so amazing together—"

"GOT IT!" I pretty much screamed, "Thanks Arabia! But I'm just having too much fun now!"

See, this is what comes of admitting Nicks sexy, I told myself; I fall to pieces as a result! Well, _thank you_ Nick but I'm telling you, I'm fine.

And to prove it, (That I AM ok) I decided, as the first song ended—KT Tunstills "Black Horse and a Cherry Tree—" I was going to dance with him.

I was going to go up to him and ask him to dance.

And when the song switched to a slow song—No Doubt's "Don't Speak"—I didn't even run away.

I considered it, but I didn't. I want the records to show that.

He was leading his partner back to get a drink when I interrupted by grabbing his shoulder. "Nick?" I said nonchalantly when he turned around. "Nick, why don't you come and have a dance with me?"

For a minute he looked surprised. Then he got over it. "Sure," he grinned easily and I followed him back to the centre of the room, And, I'm happy to note, he ditched the brunette easily. Snaps for Melinda. She was pretty hot too.

"I have to say . . ." he drawled confidently, "I love the way you dance."

I just tossed my hair in reply.

We got to wherever the hell he decided we were going and slid his arms around my waist, pulling me close to him.

Close, ALWAYS close.

Yeah, well, I CAN DO CLOSE. I put my arms around HIS Neck and moved close. EXTREMELY close, in fact. And let me tell you. We were close.

Yeah . . .

So there we were, REALLY close—Sorry. I'm NOT bothered by him. That's all I have to prove.

And . . . we danced. Well, I just swayed/revolved on the spot/enjoyed the feeling of Nicks body—I should have stopped at swayed.

Definitely should have stopped at swayed. Should have stopped all together actually. Should have just . . . STOPPED dancing, stormed out of the room, and gone into hiding. In Alaska. Built myself an igloo. And if I could tell the future then I DEFINITELY would have.

Yeah, would have found me an Eskimo friend and gotten him to teach me to fish, as well. Also would've asked my Eskimo friend to share his furry jacket with me.

Those jackets ROCK.

Anyway. At that point I was in control. "Don't Speak" is a great song, but I didn't let myself go. You couldn't fault my rhythm—and you will never be able to if I'm allowed a moment to brag—but Nick OBVIOUSLY thought something was wrong.

"Melinda?" he said warily.

"What?" I replied.

"You're acting strange."

I decided this wasn't the time to be all 'stranger than usual? Gee, THANKS!' I'll save it though. This was my moment to Prove to Nick EXACTLY where we stand.

"What? As in no reaction to you whatsoever?" I said triumphantly. "Tough! See! Not all Girls want to tear your clothes off the minute you get this close to them!"

He burst out laughing, much to my chagrin.

Typically, the minute I go to show him where I stand, he goes and flips me upside down. "Stop Laughing." I sulked.

"I—" laugh, "Can't—" Laugh, "Believe—" laugh, "That that's what this all about." Laugh.

I sulked some more.

"You know what that tells me Melinda?" he said, doing the whole lowering his voice all sexily thing.

I am ashamed to admit I shivered. His voice makes my skin crawl . . . but not in a bad way. Actually . . . in the best way possible.

Damn him. And Damn the world.

Then he had to go and make it worse by actually touching his mouth to my Neck so I could feel his lips moving when he spoke. "It tells me that you BADLY want to tear my clothes off when I get this close . . ."

The Neck thing was driving me mad. I actually was rendered incapable of speech. I mean, how BOLD was he? And he wasn't done.

"And you want to know something? . . . its mutual."

What am I supposed to say to that, huh? THANK YOU?

Not going to happen. I decide silence was my best option. Nick was till smirking at me. "What is it Melinda, Cat got your tongue?"

I managed to get out a "Shut up."

I couldn't say what I would have liked to which was, "I don't like the game you're playing mister, time out?'

Nick saw the look on my face though. And the bitch was still smirking at me. I did ask for this though. And there is no way I'm going to run scared.

"I think Loves doing something strange to you Melinda." he said all smugly.

I just about choked.

"Ex-EXCUSE ME? I am NOT in LOVE WITH YOU!" I was suddenly thankful for the eardrum pounding loud music. No one could hear me except Nick.

Should I be THANKFUL? Because I WASN'T!

LOVE? I DO NOT LOVE NICK! I admitted I found him hot, THAT'S ALL! Since WHEN did that become an Love declaration?

Modern Day America, I suppose. Hurrumph.

"YOU," I hissed in his ear, "Can shut up. Sure, I asked you to dance; you THINK I'm not regretting it now? To be perfectly honest, I'll admit you get a reaction from me," I carried on, determined not to give him a chance to throw in his 10 cents, "But it's the same reaction you get from every girl you get within 10 feet of. You're hot, you know it, I'll admit it, lets move on."

And I walked off. Yes I did. I managed to put about a metre total distance between us before he hauled me back.

"No, You think it just ends there?" he asked angrily, "NO, no it _doesn't. _Trust me Melinda, your opinion is not the only one that matters. And if you're going to speak your mind then so am I. You're being an idiot Melinda. And idiot in denial."

"That's sounds familiar," I said.

"Can you hear yourself Melinda? You go over every single encounter between us and the result of them and you see what sort of conclusion you reach."

_Can I hear myself? _Well of COURSE I can fucking hear myself! Stupid, smart people and their Stupid, smart answers.

"Yeah I can hear myself Nick. And you know what? Its all clearer. You want me because I'm the only girl who's said 'no' to you Nick. And you know what? I'll say it again. NO! I heard _that_," I said sadistically, "Did _you_ hear that?"

I was being as vicious as I could in hope of making him crack, to see him give in like a normal human being.

Although my subconscious was furiously telling me to give in, Nick Slater was, and never would be any ordinary Human. Much like . . . well, much like myself.

Nicks eyes were hard, I took a step out of his reach an for once, he let me.

"For Chrissake," he said icily, "If _that _was all I wanted from you, do you think I'd be here now, having this conversation?"

I ordered my face to stay blank, "I suppose it's understandable. But never fear, Nick, you won't be bored. The boob job bitches have got your back. And your front." I said cruelly. "And you know what?" my voice was cold, "_Go to hell_."

"Ah," he smiled, but his jaw was locked, "I've been there so many times, I could give tours."

I scoffed. "Go back to your Barbie dolls Nick. They'll put out when you snap your fingers."

"Your scared aren't you?" he said suddenly. "You've finally realised what it is I'm after, and you're scared."

"I'm NOT SCARED!"

"Don't worry," he told me evenly, "I won't tell. As long as you tell me. Say it Melinda, say—"

"I'll DIE FIRST!"

"Well the way your going, it wont be long," interrupted a voice. I turned and saw Blondie from Arabia's.

Boob job bitch, serial number 3459.

"Fuck off." I said at the exact same time Nick ordered coolly,

"Leave Natalie."

Natalie huh? 'Bimbo' suits her better. I think it was Nicks order rather than my blatant insult that made her turn around and walk away.

"And you as well. Just Fuck off Nick. I'm not scared. YOU'RE SCARED."

. . . That made no sense. I know. Don't remind me. Trust me . . . I know. But my reasoning follows that if you're losing an argument, then just use your opponents own words against them.

You can't copy-write words.

. . . I hope.

Screw him.

"Fine." Nick said, once more completely in control, whereas I was still breathing fire, "Prove you're not scared. Dance for me. None of this '_I'm trying to_ _prove something' _Crap. The real you. Let go, and, don't be scared."

"Dance for you?" I said, my bitchy confidence back in full. I could SO handle Nick Slater. "Oh no. But I will dance _with_ you. If you can keep up?" I said with a challenge.

The current song was just about finished.

What came next I never did decide wether it was a good thing or a bad thing. One of my favourite songs.

It was a little like . . . Strip club music, but what can you do?

Pussy Cat Dolls, "BUTTONS"

He looked smug as he said, "Yeah I can keep up. All right, Go."

So I did. No—WE did.

I have to say this; Nick really is the perfect partner. He lets the girl do the flashy stuff while he backs it up. I'll admit, he's a good dancer. Better than good. Great.

SEE? I am NOT in denial! Credit where credits' due!

I really love this song, it's like my best song, and you know what I've decided? I'm going to do my thing. My dancing is part of me, and I KNOW Nick Loves it so . . .?

I danced. Nick twirled me and then I stepped back to him, my back facing him as the intro to the song pounded through the speakers, and I was aware of a feeling of freedom. My back was pressed up against him now, and then I flicked my torso down and grazed my hands on the ground, but I didn't crouch, and I'm kind of almost as tall as Nick, so that meant that my ass was pretty much—Well, you get the idea.

Good thing I've never had a stellar reputation anyway, otherwise this pretty much would have shot it down.

All I'm saying was I was glad Father Dominic wasn't here. I would hate to be the one to introduce him to such dancing. Dirty Dancing.

Father Dominic doesn't watch MTV.

I twisted back up and around so I was pressed tight against Nick—all my own doing this time--Then arched my back and flicked my head back before winding my leg around his and . . . you know, staying there for a few beats before bending backwards with Nick still holding my leg as I brought my torso back up to the slower beats of the pre-chorus, you know, the whole shuddering hip-hop chest out thing? Yeah . . . THAT.

I clasped Nicks hands and put them in the air, then left his hands there as I slid my hands down, lower and lower until my hands were actually running down his thighs—

I HAVE to ask him what he does to keep in shape. Seriously. His thighs are so frigging hard, (and YES, I'M SURE IT WAS HIS LEGS. GOSH, you people.) And I'm really curious.

Before reaching his calves—which were just as freaking hard, really I want to know the answer to this before I die—I flicked my hands to his back and started running my hands up the back of his body. Of course, this meant that not only was I sliding my hands over his . . . butt, but also my body was pressed up against the front of his, I was sliding up—

AND THIS IS WHERE I STOP GIVING OUT GRAPHIC DANCING DETAILS.

**You've been saying all the right, things all night long  
But I can't seem to get you over here to help take this off  
Baby can't you see? (see)  
How these clothes are fitting on me (me)  
And the heat coming from this beat (beat)  
I'm about to blow  
I don't think you know**

I'm telling you loosen up my buttons baby (Uh huh)  
But you keep fronting (Uh)  
Saying what you going do to me (Uh huh)  
But I ain't seen nothing (Uh)

I'm telling you loosen up my buttons baby (Uh huh)  
But you keep fronting (Uh)  
Saying what you going do to me (Uh huh)  
But I ain't seen nothing (Uh)

You say you're a big boy  
But I can't agree  
'Cause the love you said you had  
Ain't been put on me  
I wonder (wonder)  
If I'm just too much for you  
Wonder (wonder)  
If my kiss don't make you just  
Wonder (wonder)  
What I got next for you  
What you want to do? (do)

Take a chance to recognize that this could be yours  
I can see, just like most guys that your game don't please  
Baby, can't you see? (see)  
How these clothes are fitting on me (me)  
And the heat coming from this beat (beat)  
I'm about to blow  
I don't think you know

I'm telling you loosen up my buttons baby (Uh huh)  
But you keep fronting (Uh)  
Saying what you going do to me (Uh huh)  
But I ain't seen nothing (Uh)  


I made a mistake in not noticing just how many people start to watch when you get some totally great dancing going on, and people had sort of backed off, giving us some space. So now I wasn't pressed close to all these dancers. Just one.

And it's impossible to dance with Nick and be thinking if anything OTHER than dancing with Nick.

Suffice to say, once we reached our starting position – i.e, my arms around his neck, and his around my waist, CLOSE again, I was having the time of my life. I took inspiration from the video clip and spun so my back was pressed up ahainst Nick's front, I leaned forward and tossed my hair, then twisted my whole torso, before straightening up, and flexing my back so my head was on Nicks shoulder, my back was curved so . . . well, that would have pushed my chest up pretty high . . . suffice to say, Nick would have had an EXCELLENT view—

I'd have to be the skankiest virgin ever. I'm a virgin whore.

Damn. I don't think that's good . . .

We were finishing up. I brought my knee up and kept it there while I rolled over Nick so I was facing him. And seeing as I kept my knee locked, my leg was . . Between Nick's own legs.

I'm a virgin whore.

The song was winding up and we were sort of ready to finish.

Or so I thought. Then Nick dipped me. Gave me the fright of my life. Then again, it's usually him doing that.

He dipped me really far too. Seriously, I was thinking, "Oh, God, look, the floors coming up to meet me--" when he pulled me back up, actually picked me up and turned so I was being spun around, mid air—I'm telling you, I was having the time of my life, and put me down again.

Song over.

I stood their and looked at him for like, a full minute, but we were both breathing hard, so we walked over to get a drink. Electricity was flowing through my body, and I had to remind myself that I was angry with Nick; otherwise god knows what would have happened.

"Happy?" I said nastily, using the word and tone more as a cover than anything else.

"Yeah," he said with a smile. A promising smile. The type of smile that hides a vampires fangs or the blood on a werewolf's teeth.

A smile that promised danger.

I was jolted into remembering that was it.

That was exactly what Nick was. Danger. No matter how much I wanted to play with the pretty flame, it was dangerous, and I was the only one going to get hurt. No matter how many times Nick kissed the burns, it was the truth.

I could try and fool myself into thinking I could handle him all I wanted, but it wouldn't do me any good. For one who loved to control others, like myself, it was startling to discover, that with Nick, I never had the control, and never would.

I don't think I quite had the detached perception to have noticed this until now. All the while Nick was manipulating me into a corner, telling me what sounded good, letting me think I was in control when I NEVER WAS.

NEVER.

It was time to let go. I'd realised the truth, and for once I was going to deal with it.

And that was it.

"Thank you Nick for the dance, it was an . . ." I started to say something smart, then reconsidered, keeping in mind my new found insight. "Educational experience."

That was a way better choice of words than 'I hope you die in your sleep.' But I'll save it for another day, and another person.

I left the turned and left the ballroom, feeling Nick's eyes on me as I left.

XoXoX

The next morning was a bit of a rush. Owing largely to the fact that I was in the shower for a good hour more than was necessary.

So now I was hurrying around the room, wrapped in one of those fluffy white towels, trying to decide what clothes to put on.

An old legend is the toilet is the best place for thinking. I raise objection! The shower is so better. I got some heavy thinking done there. With all the steam and the silence of everything except the running water, I had been quite happy letting the hot water run over my body.

To tell the truth, I had been worried there had been absolutely no paranormal activity at all, Except from Stacy showing up with a message for me to pass on to Arabia. She, Stacy, hadn't said anything about her murderer. I hoped he'd just fucked off on to his next life as a dung beetle or whatever, but the odds have never in my life been in my favour, they wouldn't start now.

But I did think that with all the murders we have in America, I'd have more ghosts. But, then again, I had corrected myself, the one's I had at the moment were quite enough to be getting on with.

The thing about a good shower is that the water takes all the tension, all the worries down the drain with it. And its just you left, carefree and innocent . . .

Until you step out.

Which brings me back to my present problem. What to wear, and what DOES one wear to play paintball? Do they still give out those hideous overall things?

Eww.

I decided to go all black, to match my mood. As I was pulling out my skinny leg jeans and stretch polo neck, I heard the door open, but took no notice, figuring Alanna had left something behind.

Imagine my surprise when I heard a unmistakable voice behind me say, "Ready Melinda?"

I let out a shriek, dropping my clothes and almost dropping my towel, which would NOT have been a good thing. The guy already thinks I'm a skank, dropping my towel would NOT be helping me any.

I've learnt my lesson about locking doors though. Lets not forget this is AMERICA.

"CRAP! Nick, What are you doing in here?"

"Well," he said calmly, "Everyone else is ready to go, and you _know_ we have to stick to the buddy system," He grinned mischievously, "So meet your new buddy."

"Buddy system?" I was confused, "What buddy system? You made that up!" I finished accusingly.

"Yeah . . ." He admitted with another grin. "But so what?"

"Bloody hell, Nick, get out of here. I don't know why you're here anyway, I'm riding with Alanna."

"So you were," he said, looking at my towel. Well, where my towel finished, to be exact.

The thing about the fluffy white towels was they weren't very big. WHY DID THIS PLACE NOT GIVE US BIGGER TOWELS? If a miniskirt is supposed incentive to rape, then a TOWEL isn't going to be better!

"_Were_? What do you mean, WERE? And raise your eyes!"

He did.

"Higher . . . " I warned.

"Arabia told Alanna you were riding with me so she should leave."

Madre de dios. She just doesn't quit.

I sighed. "So you'll take me?" He confirmed it, and managed to drag his eyes off my towel.

"Ok, well, if you don't mind waiting for me, I'll get changed then be right down."

"I'll wait, take as long as you need." Nick said, seating himself on the couch and looking expectantly at me.

"Very funny Nick, you wait DOWNSTAIRS."

"Damn." He said, managing a laugh, "I knew that might have been pushing it. I'll see you downstairs."

It took me 10 minutes tops to get down there. Which was record speed for me. To be honest, I thought he'd leave if I didn't hurry. I've seen him do worse when kept waiting, I'll say that.

I met him down there and he showed me to his car. A different one this time not the blue thing I was in when I went to his house. Wait, rephrase. Not the blue thing I was in when I went to his Mansion.

This was silver and a BMW. I could tell because it said BMW on the bonnet. Clever me.

"Wilfred's coming with us too, that Ok?" Nick said, opening the passenger door for me.

I looked in the window to see Wilfred happily perched in the back; so I opened the back door and said, "Wilfred? Hey. Would you like to sit in the front? You were here first, how come you have to sit in the back?" I walked around Nick and traded places with Wilfred, and settled happily in the back, not looking at Nick.

Nick got in and we pulled out of the park and weer on the road, Nick driving, as usual. Not that I had a problem with that. Though I thought I could probably go faster.

"Hey Nick," Wilfred said, "Thanks for giving me a lift."

"No problem," Nick said easily, "It didn't make sense for you to drive over when I had a spare seat."

I was shocked. I thought Arabia might have bullied him into it, not that he actually had a kind streak!

Well colour-me purple.

I carried on staring out the window.

"Hey Melinda," Wilfred said, intterupting my—my . . . nothing. My staring out the window, thinking about NOTHING was what he interrupted.

"Yeah?" I smiled quickly as he twisted around in the seat to look at me.

"Have you ever played paintball before? Arabia said to look out for you, but I was wondering to what she was referring. Did she mean in the general sense, or just in the game?"

"Both." Nick sounded amused. "The minute someone gives Melinda a gun, I'll be running."

I said nothing.

"Watch her Wilfred, right now, she's probably contemplating the least amount of shots she will have to use in order to bring us down." He smirked at me in the review mirror.

"You flatter yourself." I said coolly.

"I'll bet you five." Nick said to Wilfred, "But then, here I go again, giving her idea's."

I rolled my eyes and returned to looking out the window.

I think he was getting peeved at my lack of response. The big baby. Truth was, I'd just realised how futile bantering with Nick was. Like I'd discovered last night, I was just tired of it.

Give up already Nick. I have.

We pulled up and I got out and had a look around.

On my far left was what looked like a giant pit with targets and then further along, on my left still, was a giant shed which was where, I'm guessing, the hideous orange overalls lived, along with the guns and all that.

Excellent.

On my right was an actual forest—Which just shows how far out of Carmel we were—which just looked so dense and silent.

Totally foreboding and I was in love.

I walked into the shed, leaving Nick and Wilfred behind, and found those of Arabia's friends who'd decided to come paintballing—I noticed Cindy and Blondie were absent, probably scared of getting bruised—in total, about 30.

I couldn't wait to shoot every single one of them.

Kidding.

. . . Almost.

Some guys came around the corner and introduced themselves as Ban and Joel, the guys running this outfit, then they told us to follow them around the other side of the shed. We did, and I found a seat on a wooden bench overlooking the giant Target pit. I sat next to Alanna, who was starting to look a little green.

"Did you see the guns?" she sounded faintly worried, "I mean, they look REAL. I thought they'd be, like, plastic or something but they're real!"

"Alanna. Calm down, the bullets aren't real and that's what counts."

She managed a nod.

"Hey Willy!" Called some trivial little wannabe jock to Wilfred—and by the way. How DERIVATIVE is the nickname of WILLY? "Willy! Come sit by me! Come sit by me!"

Wilfred started to go over there but Alanna stopped him. "Wilfred, don't. He's trying to be funny. Ignore him and sit with us?"

Wilfred looked up at Alanna with something like hero worship and sat next to her.

"C'mon little Willy!" persevered the trifling wannabe. "Have a—"

"Shut it." I snapped, feeling like I should say something. Be a good person and defend the lesser able and all that jazz. Alanna's just so NICE. I suppose I have to live up to her. "Go on, stop talking out your ass and _sit down_, before you fall down."

"Right." interrupted Joel or Ben—not sure which one—starting to pace in front of us. "Paintball is a very fun game but has the potential to be nasty."

I'm counting on that, I thought, but didn't say.

"The forest behind us is your boundary, you shoot someone off that boundary and watch out, because I'll be after you."

Nice people these. Truly. Straight to the point.

"Here are maps, showing two team base's, black's this one towards the north, and greens the one towards the south."

It was then that I spared a thought for how big the forest actually was. On this map it looked fucking huge.

"You get hit," interrupted the other one, either Ben or Joel, "And you're out. No fuss, and don't pull any crap. Once you get hit, put your hand up and leave the game, come back to the home base, which is here." He pointed at the giant tin shed and I winced.

"One of your teams will be given a soccer ball. Both teams objective is to posses that soccer ball. When times up—you'll know when that is because I got hold of a hooter—the team that's got the ball wins."

"What if neither team has the ball?" I asked. "What if it's in an individual's care?"

"Then the TEAM that individual belongs to wins." I noted an emphasis on the team.

"It's a _team_ game Melinda." Said a voice I recognised as Blondie's. Funny. I didn't think she was here. Good she was though. I was going to have a gun while she was somewhere in the vicinity. Need I say more? "This isn't first grade," she said snottily, "You should know how to _share_."

"Well who sounds like a five year old now?" I said indifferently.

She just glared at me and there was a moment of of tension before I said to either Ben or Joel, "Anything else?"

"No, I think we're good," said one of them, after looking at me for a minute.

"Yeah, I don't think we missed anything?" Ben/Joel said—Right. I'm going to call them B1 and B2. "OK. Come and get your gear."

Walking into the shed I was relieved to see no orange overalls. We were given masks, and they weren't too bad either. They were small and either black or green depending on your team. I was black. So was Nick. I was a little disappointed; I wouldn't be able to get away with shooting him as easily I he was on my team. Where there's a will theirs a way, however.

I shook my hair out and donned the mask without too much of a fuss. I mean, they were going to mess up my hair real good, but if that was the price of getting to shoot people, then I was more than happy.

They just covered our eyes too. I dunno what would happen if you got hit in, like, the mouth, but the dude's in charge just told us not to shoot each other in the head.

Fat chance of that rule being followed.

THERE IS A REASON WILFRED HAS NEVER PLAYED PAINTBALL BEFORE. EVER SEEN REVENGE OF THE NERDS?

Then we started the fun stuff.

GUNS.

Guns and paintball bullets.

And someone actually saw fit to give Wilfred a gun. Idiots. "I have a gun!" he said, sounding so amazed I thought he might faint for all the excitement. "I have a GUN!"

"Really?" I said, my voice sarcastic, "Me too!"

Some other bright spark called out, "So do I!" and I rolled my eyes. I could already see how much fun this was going to be.

All those times I wished I could shoot people I hated, and here I am! I just wish Sister Ernestine were here.

Although I don't think it would be all that good for my immortal soul if I shot a nun.

Karma and all that.

"Oh gosh." I heard Alanna say as she selected her gun. "Wow. This is, er . . . "

"Breathe." I said as I went over to her. "You're armed and dangerous now!"

"Armed, sure," she retorted, "it's the dangerous part I'm struggling with! It's easy for you, you're good at everything!"

"I'm not good at EVERYTHING," I replied, "But give me a gun and I'll figure it out."

"Extra bullets—" B1 bellowed over all the excited chatter, "—Can be bought at the counter! 10 minutes to sort yourselves out before I let you out into the bush."

I headed to the counter.

"I want an extra pack," I said to the chick behind it, who looked like she could be either B1's or B2's daughter, and laid down some money.

"You'd better make it two," said a voice as an arm reached over me, "She's going to need them."

I turned around to see Chad. A Jock. A nice jock though. I didn't think there could be such a thing, so it _just goes to show_.

"Oh, I bet you can kick my ass any day," I said with a smile.

"We'll have to see about that. But the extra pellets are for if you come across Wilfred. For the first time in his life he's been let loose with a weapon."

I laughed. "So you're keeping an eye on all the womenfolk?"

"Sure am ma'am," he said in a pretty good imitation of a western outlaw.

"Just watch those damsel's in distress cowboy." I smiled, "You never know when one of them might have a gun on you."

"I'm guessing that's a threat from you to me." He said with an answering smile.

"Now Chad." I fluttered my eyelashes and tilted my head, "I'm as innocent as a lamb."

He laughed, and with a wink, turned and left me with the girl behind the counter who rolled her eyes and handed me an extra pack of paintball bullets.

I like Chad, he was so cool. And also, every time I said his name I thought of Charlie's Angels. Chad. THE CHAD.

You must love THE Chad. Pity he wasn't on my team. Chad was the sort of guy you'd want at your back. Good guy. Far more likely to be the sheriff than the bandit.

I CALL BANDIT!

Our five minutes being up, we were led, in teams, out to our separate stations and told the other team (green) were starting with the ball.

Our team had a quick discussion, electing those to stay behind and hold the base

Its amazing, you find out who are the people that love war movies—they're the one's using all the fancy jargon, and you find out the once who love the spy movies—they're the one's talking about strategy, and you also find the romantics—Like Alanna who was currently hiding behind Daniel.

I just wanted to kick some ass. Is that so wrong? I have complete faith in my ability to do so, as well. How hard is it? Give me a gun, point out the target (Or let me spot someone I don't like) and we're good to go!

Pity Nick was on my team. Ah well. I'll just say I got mixed up. I don't hold him any grudges now, but I think I owe him at least one shot for old times sake.

We stuck a map to our base—which was really like a wooden podium with walls—so I took a quick look at that and decided on a plan of action. There was a hillock to the left of their base, if I could get on top of that I'd have an advantage.

Just then we heard the sound of shots being fired, so we knew the other team had been quicker in its organization than we were. I ran out, down the hill and kept going until I saw someone moving up ahead. I threw myself behind a tree just in time, as I saw a bullet hit the tree behind where I was a second ago. I had, I guessed, a few moments before they came over here to find me. I looked around for a hiding place, and coming up with nothing, I twisted myself around the tree, so the further they came forward, the further I went around until—in theory—I was behind them and able to get a clean shot.

I was fully aware that theory doesn't always work well, but I honestly didn't care. The blood was pounding through my veins, and the danger of getting caught and the thrill of doing the catching was playing hell with my adrenaline.

I was loving it.

Of course, I hadn't been hit yet.

But what were a few risks?

"C'mon . . . " I muttered, "Hurry up . . ."

I heard them footsteps. Crunching on the falling leaves and the odd stumble on protruding roots. I flattened myself out on the ground and aimed my gun as best I could, keeping in mind I was on the ground.

I was quite grateful to be wearing black, and tight black at that, it was just so much easier to move.

They came further forward and I was able to identify them. Two guys I didn't know, and Chad.

This was going to be fun.

They walked further forward and I slid around behind them, trying to quiet my breathing as much as possible without STOPPING all together.

"She was here." Said one of them. "I saw her."

"Who?" whinged the second.

"Who?" responded Chad. "Probably the only lady here who would hesitate at bruising that pretty face of yours."

"Excellent," I said, standing up and moving behind them. I took rough aim and shot the first two guys quickly, not wanting to take my chances with three against one. "Seems I've got a reputation." I held my gun on Chad and smiled.

I had to hold back a wince as my paintball gun had a wicked kickback on it. Mother of god—that was going to sting.

Seems I need to be a bit quicker though, as Chad had his paintball gun pointed at me as well.

One of the two guys I'd shot swore, but they raised their guns and started to walk towards the edge of the bush. I thought about yelling after them, "COME BACK, YOU'VE GOT MY BULLETS!" (hahahahaha, get it?) but I decided Chad might think I was weird. Well, I AM weird, but I didn't want to freak the guy out too much or anything.

Chad shook his head in mock disgust. "They're crushed. Beaten by a girl."

I didn't take my eyes off him. I didn't want to lose so soon into the game. Actually; I didn't want to lose at ALL.

"Yeah?" I kept my voice teasing, "But what now?"

"Well, we could just stand here, pointing guns at each other."

"Stalemate." I agreed.

"Or." He said, taking a step sideways, "We could just carry on. Let each other loose. I'll be honest and say that standing here all day isn't going to be much fun. Or . . ." he smiled daringly, "I could shoot you."

"Or I could shoot YOU. But—" I said, and lowered my gun, "I'm not going to."

I thought that was very decent of me, personally. I could have shot Chad and ran, but honestly, the idea of running didn't really appeal to me—thank Nick for putting that idea in my head—And what was to say Chad wouldn't shoot me first? He played football, he had to be quick.

And, proving my theory that Chad was basically a good guy and that he wouldn't shoot me because he liked me way too much—I will agree with Barty Crouch jnr, and say decent people are so easy to manipulate--, he lowered his paintball gun as well. "Have fun." He said.

"You too!" I laughed and turned back down the path. He was a good guy. I'd leave him alone.

Paintball has to be the ultimate sport, I reflected later on. I got to shoot people, run, jump, hide, shoot some more people . . . it was brilliant.

To make things better, I had the ball. I knew I would. I'd just managed a decent reconnaissance/ confrontational assault on the opposing team. Thing is, a few other people I was with were to charge in full on and start shooting everything wearing a mask, while I got around behind the green teams base and took the ball while they were otherwise occupied.

Not exactly stellar military tactic's, but they worked.

So now all I had to do was get back to the base with the ball. Whice was going to be easy, because, hello, I had a gun.

And was getting way too trigger happy by this stage in the game.

Pfft. And they were still trying to pass this off as a team game. I was doing fine on my own. Much like reality.

I love paintball guns.

Do they sell these things to the public? I doubt it. Modern day America and all.

I heard footsteps on the path up ahead of me, and I decided _what the hell I was in a daring mood, _and stayed where I was, sliding the ball to my hip and lifting my gun to the noise.

The most important thing I'd learnt today was that firing from the hip only works in the movies.

And another important thing? This gun had a serious kickback on it. And I didn't have football fanatic muscles, so it was best if I aimed a little lower than where I wanted to hit.

Remember that.

The good thing was I was a natural with a gun. Although several people I know would debate if that were actually a good thing.

Nick stepped out from around the corner.

"Oh. It's you." I said, considering lowering my gun and deciding against it. One good sharp shot in the gut wouldn't harm him too much . . . The ladies would still have their Adonis.

He noticed I didn't put my gun down and smirked. His trademark.

"You know I could shoot you, right?" I was just checking, "No witnesses and all that."

"Should I put my hands up?" Nick asked teasingly.

"You know . . . " I pretended to think about it as I started walking slowly towards him, "That's a good idea, but I can think of better."

"It's not going to involve me being tied to a tree is it?"

I aimed a shot just over his shoulder, just to wake him up a little.

"It might . . . But not yet." I was right in front of him now and I pressed the barrel of my gun into his chest. "Thing is Nick . . . You should have never let me get so close."

I was definitely enjoying lording it over him. I like power, and while I duly admitted that when it came to Nick it was a battle I was never going to win, and I'd given up, la de dah de dah, I was going to have one last moment.

"All part of my plan," He said and then neatly pushed my gun arm aside, and then quickly, so I couldn't reposition my arm, he moved _his _other arm—the one holding his gun—to snake around my waist and pull me to him, which was interesting as he angled his wrist so his gun was digging into my spine.

So much for that. I NEVER _LEARN_!

I will grudgingly admit, in spite of that, the flick-my-gun-out-of-the-way-pull-me-to-him-put-his-gun-in-my-back was a pretty flickin' move.

"Let go of me," I slapped his arm. "Stop playing."

I neglected to mention that I wasn't playing when I was considering shooting him, but from the look on his face, this was something he already knew. I pushed myself away from him—backing myself into the gun, NOT SMART, by the way—Loosening his grip on me, but not dislodging it completely.

"OFF." I said, and to emphasise my point, I shot the ground by his foot. It didn't do much good, but it was close range and I was imagining it to be a specific part of Nick's anatomy.

Not that I imagine that specific part of Nick's anatomy all that regularly.

GRRR!

"Nick, honestly, just—just . . . Make like a tree! And LEAVE!"

I know, I know. Not exactly my wittiest, but it could have been worse.

"What was it you said about other ideas?" He said calmly "I've got one. You're going to give me that ball."

"WHAT? Nick, _we're on the same team!_"

"I know," he said simply, lowering his gun and slowly letting me go, "but I don't trust you."

I couldn't help but grin. "Which is just as it should be."

"Give it up."

"Like I would!" I said, pulling off my paintball mask and glaring at him. He'd all ready gotten rid of his, god knows when.

Mr Macho, _ooh I don't need a paintball mask because I'm a MAN. _Stupid bitch.

"Yes. You will."

This was pointless. Nick telling me I was going to give something to him wasn't going to make me give it to him. He should have found that out by now.

_Then_, the Asno-de-gato jumped me! Dropped his gun and jumped me!

Basically, he sort of leaped at me really quick, knocked me to the ground—And my gun out of my left hand—then put his hand over my mouth so I couldn't make any noise, and pried the ball out of my grip.

I was like his rag doll. Moving how he wanted me to.

. . . until I managed to elbow him in the gut. It wasn't as effective as I would have liked, but he rolled over. The bad thing was he held on to me still, so I rolled on top of him. His hand came off my mouth though.

"What the hell was that?" I exploded, pushing myself off him and getting to my feet. As an afterthought I snatched my gun back from where it had fallen, and as a precaution, I grabbed his too.

Nick got to his feet, "Did you have to elbow me?"

"DID YOU HAVE TO JUMP ON ME?" I shouted indignantly.

"I got the ball." He threw it up in the air and caught it again.

"So you have," I said, making a grab for it, a move he pre-empted and blocked.

"Give it back."

"Mmm," he pretended to think about it, "No. However. You can come with me back to the others, and THEN you can have the glory for getting it."

"I don't want _glory,_" I scoffed, "I want the BALL."

How childish do I sound? Any moment now I'd be demanding Nick give me back my finger-paints and play dough.

"Tough luck. You're not getting it. I told you, I don't trust you to act for the _team._"

I was growing to really hate that word. _Team. _Team-team-teamy-team . . . Yeah. I hate it.

"FINE." I growled, moving of down the trail haughtily with my chin in the air. "Keep the stupid ball. But I'm coming with you. THEN when we get back to the _team,_" I placed sarcastic mockery on the word, "I'll tell them all how you PHYSICALLY ASSAULTED ME in order to take the stupid ball off me!"

"Oh, they wont care," his voice drifted from behind me, "They all already thing we're secretly bonking each others brains out."

"They WHAT?" I shrieked, stopping dead. "WHY DID YOU TELL THEM THAT?"

"I didn't."

"Oh fuck off. You must have. It's not true. Is it . . ."

"Oh yeah Melinda." Nick said sarcastically. "It _is_ true and you don't know it because I've been _ravishing _you while you were sleeping."

"Shut up." I muttered. I say stupid things sometimes, I know that. Fuck, the whole WORLD knows that.

"No its not true," he said, walking past me and snatching his gun out of my limp hands. "I think you'd know if it were. But I suppose it's just a matter of time."

"Whatever." I said, in no mood for his optimistic crap. I knew it was never going to happen. "Lets just get back to the base, I have this mad urge to _shoot someone._"

No prizes for guessing who was number one on that list.

WE walked in silence for a little while, I was thinking, and he—well, I've got no idea what he was doing. I mindlessly shot the ground a meter in front of me and got no small amount of satisfaction out of seeing Nick turn around and glare darkly at me, in response, I just laughed.

I stood and watched the paint from the bullet seep through to the ground, I felt an almost perverse satisfaction at seeing the orange stained ground, a dent in the earth where the shell had spilt open, the paint was spreading itself out, contaminating all it could reach with bold orange colour.

God I was going to get Nick good. He was walking up ahead of me, so I shot again. Closer to him this time. And I didn't stop to watch it, I just looked around in my best imitation of purity.

He stopped, turned around, and glared at me again, then turned back around. I waited for him to take another step, the let off another shot, at his heels this time.

"Melinda, you're being childish." He said in a martyred voice, without turning around.

"Me? Childish? Oh no Nick," I inflicted my voice with my best _innocent_ tone, "I haven't even BEGUN to be childish."

"You always have to make things difficult, don't you?" He threw over his shoulder in a voice that belied a deeper inner emotion.

"Hey," I said to his back, making an attempt at unconcerned cheerfulness. "Is it my fault people piss me off?"

Nick turned his head back fractionally and shot me a quick glance, "Have you ever stopped to think about how much easier things would be if you just accepted things, rather that fighting them?" he said in a patronising voice, which didn't quite hide the undernote of anger. "You and me for example. We—"

And there goes my cheerfulness. Even if it was fake. And isn't he so full of advice? Who does he think he is, Oprah?

"Don't even think about pulling that crap on me today." I said, stoping walking, extremely keen on stomping on the whole idea. "I want to shoot someone, and you're closest."

He stopped walking as well and turned to look me in the eye. "You wouldn't"

I raised my gun, pointed it at him and raised an eyebrow.

He just looked at me, daring me to shoot him.

I moved my finger and curled it around the trigger.

"You wont do it." He said with a smirk.

"Oh wont I?"

"No," he suddenly grabbed my wrist and pulled me against him. "You won't." He added firmly.

And he kissed me.

I dropped my gun arm against my side

I felt dizzy, hot where his body was touching mine, and cold where it wasn't. Nick's kiss was making me forget what we'd been talking about before, how angry I was . . . . everything, except for the heat where our lips touched.

He was gentle too, if I'd expected Nick to kiss me, I wouldn't have expected him to kiss like this. He was trying to convince me not force me, he was flirting, teasing. He took my bottom lip between his teeth and I found a new emotion. Desire.

I couldn't move from the spot where I was glued to Nicks mouth, Tantalising . . . teasing . . . something that was, for me, completely foreign in a kiss.

My head was spinning from this one kiss and I gave a small moan and managed to tear my mouth away.

"Get off me please," I managed to say, my voice sounding hesitant, wavering.

"Now don't you see?" he asked me, "do you—?"

I remembered what it was we'd been arguing about.

"I see nothing!" I choked out, "Why cant you just take NO for an answer—"

"Because Melinda," he said, his breath ragged on my cheek. "That's not really your answer."

"Are you INSANE?" I demanded, trying to ignore my now tingling lips, and his close proximity. "Stop! God, what are you trying to prove—" He didn't answer me, and I couldn't loosen his grip from my waist. "Nick—" I said feebly, "Stop this! Oh god, you have to stop this right now! Just . . . stop it?" I finished pleadingly.

"I was right wasn't I? Say it." He said huskily, and kissed the corner of my mouth invitingly.

All I could manage was a throaty growl. Even if I could've gotten away now, would I actually want to?

I think Nick knew – or had a fair idea of - what I was thinking.

Damn him. He grabbed my chin and said, "You see? How pointless it is to –" he kissed me gently on the lips, " – Deny – " he said between kisses, "What was – obviously – meant to happen?"

I didn't answer and he took advantage of my silence and kissed me again.

How could he do this to me?

This is all I'm destined to be isn't it? Just another useless female who surrenders herself as soon as a guy sticks his tongue in her mouth? All my life I've hated people like this. And now I'm acting like one of them.

My body was screaming for more, I _wanted_ him to carry on, I really did. I was disgusted with myself, and yet I couldn't tear myself away. Further more, he knew what I wanted, without my saying a word.

Is this really all I am? Another of Nick's conquests?

That's how I was feeling. Like some cheap _slut. _

HOW. DARE. HE.

How DARE he treat me like this? Like all he had to do was convince me of how greater kisser he was, and I would be his to command? When he tells me to jump, I leap? When he wants a cheap screw, I give it to him?

No _FUCKING _way.

I twisted one arm out of his grip—the arm holding my gun—and while he was busy claiming his so called victory, I took a rough aim and tightened my finger around the trigger.

The effect was instant. He got off me all right.

A shot in the side of the ribs will usually do that.

And yet, I couldn't help but notice he wasn't writhing on the ground in pain as I had hoped. NO, he was taking such a shot – close range, VERY close range – well.

He couldn't hide his eyes though. And his anger was so far as to the point of frighting me.

If I could admit to fear, which I can't. So I was as calm as ever . . . sort of.

"So. That's what you've been reduced to now, is it?" His tone was dangerously quiet.

"Would you mind leaving me now?" I said defiantly. "If I'm right, you're OUT."

Gods bless all paintball rules.

I never in a million years expected him to do what he did next. He lifted his gun and shot ME.

"OUCH!"

My shoulder! Fucking mother of GOD! It hurt like a bitch! I mean, I'd been shot before today—one in my leg and one in my stomach—but NOT THIS CLOSE! True, Nick was closer when I shot him (you couldn't get much closer, in fact) but this was close e-fucking-nough!

And there was a good reason I shot him! It could fall under the category of SEXUAL ASSAULT.

"What the hell was that for?" I yelped.

Well have YOU ever been shot at a _meter_ range? It FUCKIN' HURTS.

"Tough love baby!" he snapped.

"SEE? You SEE why this ISN'T SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN?" I screamed, rage – and pain – getting the better of me, "YOU AND ME? WE JUST DON'T GO! IT WON'T WORK! GIVE UP! You say I'M the one in denial? Have you ever stopped to think that perhaps its YOU in denial? YOU CANT FIGHT FATE!"

Next thing, he'd thrown me into a tree—actually threw me—and forced my body up against his, and hissed dangerously "YES. I – CAN!" before crushing his mouth against mine.

This was pain. A whole lot of it. Not only was his shoulder digging into my injured one, but also I was being pinned against this tree like there would be no tomorrow.

And to be quite honest, I could not see one. Tomorrow I mean.

It was the way he was kissing me. He wasn't asking me to kiss him, like before. He was demanding it, forcing me. It wasn't sweet, it wasn't safe . . . every touch screamed danger. I could feel my skin on fire where he was touching me. I could feel his emotions, anger, fury, recklessness, and just plain LUST

Something else too . . . I don't know what.

It was nothing like his last kiss. That was teasing, tormenting. This was different.

Before he was asking. Now he was demanding.

It was scaring me. Here was someone who knew what they were doing, and fight this as I might, there was nothing I could do. I was powerless against him. He was stronger than me, better than me, and used of getting what he wanted.

And I couldn't escape.

He was still crushing me up against this tree, and every second going by made fighting him harder and harder.

No matter what I did . . . I couldn't win. Story of our relationship. I COULDN'T WIN.

Nothing I did made a difference. No matter what I did, he carried on. My hands were jammed in place beside me by Nicks, my body locked against this tree. It HURT, I had no power, and I could do nothing.

. . . Nothing.

I could barely remember why I was fighting him. Just as I thought I was going to get free, he would crush me even more. What was even the point? Fighting a losing battle meant NOTHING to me until now. I'd always believed there would be a way out. Always someway to escape, to get out, even if you couldn't find it right away.

Until now. Now I truly understood the idea of never being able to win. Not being able to flee or to fight. There being nothing to do except . . . surrender.

It was then I found myself kissing him just as much as he was kissing me, It all went numb, everything went numb . . . I couldn't feel the branch digging into my thigh, or the knots in the tree trunk I was so painstakingly pinned against. Nothing except the rough aggression that was our kiss.

I could feel the heat, our anger merging, our bodies pressed together . . .

I felt him smirk against my lips and I was amazed to find I didn't care. I was giving it to him now, I was just as angry as he was, and I was showing it in the exact same way. I could feel his grip on me – if possible – tightening. I retaliated by ignoring it. For a few short moments - I ignored everything except the heat between us.

Just as I thought I seriously might collapse of the pressure—he stopped.

Following no logic at all, I'll add. All I had to do to get him to stop was to what he wanted? What a screwed up world we live in.

"Tell me." He said roughly.

All I could do was to stare at him.

"Tell me, how does it feel?" he continued, "To discover something you'd been running from for _so _long?" he finished mockingly.

I couldn't forget it. I also couldn't forget the course of emotions I felt just a few moments ago. Both his and mine.

That's just it though. Mine. _Mine. _They were just as strong as his. Maybe more. Something else I couldn't I forget that once I was done fighting; I gave in. just . . . gave in.

I could only look at him, a shocked expression on my face.

He looked straight back at me and smirked.

"I—I'm leaving now." I managed to say, holding my head high. "Adios." **(A/N: Translation: Goodbye.)**

The things I say sometimes. I turned and hurriedly made my way out of the forest, leaving Nick behind me.

Why hadn't they given us real guns, I thought mournfully as I passed tree after tree. Might have made it easier all round.

I reflected that maybe there was something to this ghost business. At the moment, being dead seemed safer than being alive.

**Well? Whaddaya think? Privately I think its one of my better chapters, (I absolutely CRACKED MYSELF UP with the Eskimo thing—**"Build myself an igloo"**—But I read it to a friend and he looked at me like I was mad. So. Was it one of my betters? Feel free to disagree—OR AGREE! Lol—in your review!**

**That was a hint. **

**Love and kisses,**

**Mariah**

**XoXoX**


	12. For the Love of the Game

**Right-oh.**

**Seeing as I am on school holidays, I have a buttload of free time to write with. Don't get excited, it won't last; my final exams begin at the end of these holidays. **

**Now now, don't cry for me, its not that bad. All that happens if I fail these exams is that I will be screwed for all of the foreseeable future, jobless, and living under a bridge in a cardboard box.**

**Ok. You can cry now.**

**Seeing as homeless people don't have access to fanfiction.**

**Hell, now I'M crying. **

**ANYWAY. Back to my original point, I have another chapter for you. I was going to be mean and hold this chapter to ransom, my ransom demand being LOVELY, LONG REVIEWS, but I decided you guys didn't deserve it, having given me pretty lovely reviews all round last chapter. **

**But don't get too comfy. If I am feeling neglected, don't be surprised when one of your next update alerts lead you to a ransom note.**

**You have been warned.**

For the Love of the Game. 

Bounce once…bounce twice…throw-up-in-the-air…swing…hit…follow through.

The ball hits the far boundary net.

New ball.

Bounce once…bounce twice…throw-up-in-the-air…swing…hit…follow through.

The ball hits the far boundary net.

New ball.

Bounce once…bounce twice…throw-up-in-the-air…swing…hit…follow through.

The ball goes over the far boundary net. Settles somewhere in the too perfect grass.

New ball.

I don't know how long I was there for. Could have been hours. Could have been minutes.

Where I was; was out on the perfectly kept green tennis courts, "Practising my serve." Or that's what I had told Alanna. What I was really doing was hitting things as hard as I could. Admittedly, 'Things' pretty much amounted to tennis balls, but there's a definite satisfaction in hearing the noise the racquet made when brought into connection with the tennis ball.

And an even better sound when the racquet itself made contact with the wood bleachers lining the courts.

But I only did that once or twice.

Or . . . possibly more. No one's counting.

It was 6.00 in the morning—I'd been here since four—and a perfect day, and I was spending it the way I thought best.

Of course, when I say perfect, I'm not meaning in the traditional sense, but more in my sense. It was freezing cold and the sky was almost completely clouded over. Perfect.

Yes, perfect. For what I had in mind it was _completely_ perfect. Ferndale didn't really cater too well for those with solitude in mind, but they DO have what looks like tennis court after tennis court. No one's really playing Tennis at four in the morning, I've discovered.

Bounce once…bounce twice…throw-up-in-the-air…swing…hit…follow through.

The ball hits the boundary net with such force it comes sailing back and I had another crack at it.

Ball goes over the far boundary net. Passes the one in the grass.

New ball.

I wonder if Arabia's daddy was expecting to have to pay for damages? He probably was, I reasoned, having met Scott.

I hear the court gate swing open and I spin around to see Arabia herself and Alanna standing at the gates.

I flicked the latest ball up into my racquet and did a few bounces.

Nothing unusual about finding someone out here at six in the morning with a crooked racquet and a few hundred tennis balls.

OK, nothing unusual about finding Melinda de Simon out here at six in the morning with a crooked racquet and a few hundred tennis balls.

"Hey Melinda," called Arabia, "I thought we'd come out and join you, you up for a game?"

Subtle interference. Mooch your way in until the subject cracks and spills. Not going to happen.

Welcome back the closed book.

Fuck off world; the bitch is back in control.

Maybe a little more cantankerous than usual, but not too bad, considering.

"Why?" I said smoothly, "Does someone want to play me?"

Rhetorical question. No one actually wanted to play TENNIS. Sure enough, no answer and I turned away with a slight sneer and headed back to find the racquets cover. Which . . . doesn't now fit the unrecognisably bent mix of metal and nylon I currently held in my hand.

"Actually Melinda," came a voice, "I was thinking you'd be interested in opposing me."

Big surprise.

The thick skulled boy doesn't know when to leave well enough alone.

How _predictable._

"You know?" I straightened up, "I think I will."

Nick's captain of the men's tennis team and I'm mad as hell. We're fairly evenly matched.

But naturally, money on me.

I was going to be needing a new racquet though. I walked to the gate and made to go past Arabia and Alanna. "Where do you think you're going?" Arabia grabbed my arm.

"Um, I _know_ I'm going to get a new racquet," I replied. "So . . . _hands off._"

"Why?" she demanded sharply. "What happened to the one you had before?"

I smiled callously and held up my unrecognisable racquet.

Arabia winced.

"Well . . ." Alanna didn't look _too_ surprised; after all, she's seen me this angry before—when we found out Stacy had supposedly taken her own life. "Here. We only came to talk with you anyway, you can have mine."

"Sure?"

She nodded. "Duh. I can't play tennis. Have you SEEN my serve?"

I admitted that I had.

"Oh, and whack one at that Slater, won't you?" Arabia asked, "He's been in a mood ever since we got back from paintball yesterday. Can't think why. Unless you—"

I turned and walked back onto the court.

"Ready?" I said, not expecting an answer. In fact, if I had gotten one . . . lets just say I'd be needing a new racquet.

While I will admit denim shorts and a tank top were hardly a perfect tennis-playing outfit—I was freezing in this weather, and didn't care—I'd be dammed if I'd wear one of the perky little white get ups.

Nick was hardly better.

He was wearing jeans and a raglan long sleeved shirt. Pretty much what he was wearing when we—It _is_ what he was wearing when we—god, CHANGE THE OUTFIT MUCH? I felt like shouting, but didn't because of the awkward questions it would raise.

Was ALREADY raising in my own head.

I swung the racquet haphazardly around me, on the pretence of warming up and then I stood impatiently waiting for Nick to grab a racquet and get on the court.

"Can you hurry up a bit?" I said bitchily.

Let us forget for a moment that I am a catastrophic tennis player, and focus instead on the game at hand.

And you know what? I didn't even CARE. I didn't CARE what happened. I wanted to HIT stuff.

It started to rain.

Light, feathery drops, but we all know for how long this stage lasts.

"Do you want to serve?" Nick called.

"I couldn't give a rats ass!" I threw back.

He served the ball. A perfect serve, as I knew it would be. Bounced perfectly in the centre of the square and I came forwards to meet it. I hit it directly to the far corner of Nick's side, not wasting any time on the pleasantries of little hits back and forth.

He didn't fuss about hitting it back with the same amount of force either.

Good thing I'm not scared of violence.

Because . . . there was going to be plenty of that.

"So Melinda!" Nick called loudly—I checked to make sure Alanna and Arabia weren't still at the gate: they were, which was fine by me. Nick was the one going to embarrass himself here—"Is that how you deal with everything in your life that is a threat? Pretend it didn't happen? It doesn't exist?"

I rolled my eyes and gave a wild laugh.

God. Said a small part of me. You really are insane.

"Seriously." He kept at it, "You found out you were wrong and then you ran away."

"Whoever said I was wrong?" I smiled nastily at him over the net as I hit the ball back as hard as I could.

"Oh, FUCK OFF!" he yelled, smashing the ball at me. "You're stubborn, but you're not STUPID!"

I looked again to check Alanna and Arabia were still there to bear witness to the famously cold Slater losing his cool, but they'd disappeared.

Unfortunate, but not crippling.

"You're a good kisser." I shrugged and lobbed the ball high over the neat and just Out of Nick's jumping reach. Point to me. "Thanks for sharing."

"Did you just say THANKS FOR SHARING?" he bellowed incredulously. He didn't bother retrieving the ball, just got another one.

The rain was getting heavier and heavier. Now we actually HAD to yell, instead of just doing it to emphasise our arguments. Well, my argument. His was just crappy lawyer logic anyway.

"Yep!"

Ha. CRAM THAT UP YOUR SKIRT LAWYER BOY.

He smashed the ball at me and gained an instant point. Mean serve on this kid.

That might explain those incredible thighs at any rate. Tennis, I mean. Although. His floozies might have something else to do with that.

God. He's such a pimp.

. . . Images of Nick as an aging sugar daddy . . .

Am filing that away for a later date.

"You ARE scared." He said it like he knew it, "All this, all—THIS" he broke off to return my hit, "is just another act. You're actually _scared_."

He touched a nerve.

No, he hammered a nerve.

"SAY THAT AGAIN." I challenged.

"You're TERRIFIED!" He hollered

I smashed the ball directly at him. Got him in the gut.

I'm quite proud of my aim right now. Of course, I was aiming a little lower . . .

"Cheap shot Melinda!"

"GO FUCK A DONKEY!" I screamed, then controlling myself slightly, added maliciously, "If you can. Maybe all your sluts have worn you out. Sadly for you, I'll never be in a position to find out. Which is just as well, seeing as you probably couldn't handle me _anyway_."

. . . Well no one's calling me mature after this. Actually . . . no one called me mature _before _this.

If that wasn't catty, I don't know what is. I couldn't think of any better insult to throw at Nick that implying he might not be able to handle me sexually.

Heh. If I wasn't so damn furious, I might be slightly scared of the reprisal.

It was worth it though. That felt GOOD.

"And another cheap shot," He surprised me by laughing, "You're slipping, you know that? And you KNOW I'd be more than your match. Why don't you stop barking and come taking a bite?"

Ooh! That was _dirty_!

An insane smile came across my face and I laughed a little into the rain.

The rain was bucketing down now. It was getting a little hard to make those running hits.

And then I missed one. I slipped and nearly hit the ground, but I managed to stop myself from falling my throwing out an arm. I hauled myself back to my feet and retrieved another ball.

"I know WHY you're scared too." Nick yelled. He wasn't going to be stopping his little rant anytime soon; I could see that. "You're sour because you're not calling the shots anymore! You want someone you can chase into a nice little box, who will stay there, ready for you to manipulate and use whenever you want! Well you tried that, remember? You got bored!"

I'd admit that there was some truth in that.

Outwardly I just shrugged and bounced the ball a few times.

But he . . . he nailed it. Perfectly. I liked to be the one calling all the shots, and with Nick, that didn't happen. And when it did . . . he's right. I got bored.

"You know what?" I yelled, deciding to go bold. "You're right. But did you ever consider Nick that I just might not like you? Or can your stupid ego not HANDLE THAT?"

I threw the ball up in the air and smashed it as hard as I could completely disregarding that it was his serve.

He laughed, "That's not it. Or have you already forgotten the way you kissed me?"

Stupid, cocky idiot. '_Woo, who could resist a kiss from me, I'm so sexy, everyone wants me'_. I suppose I could say, 'kiss you? I never kissed you. It's all in your head . . .' but I thought that might have been asking a bit much.

The rain was soaking my clothes through, making it harder to move, harder to run too, which was a definite problem, but a benefit was he couldn't see my face through the downpour and I couldn't see his.

In fact, I couldn't even see the net. So when Nick, God knows how, managed to get the ball back to me, I just had to swing as hard as I could and hope brute force would make up for accuracy.

"Thing is, Melinda," he snarled, "I'm no one's toy. You can't control me. I gave you a challenge," he continued, "And now you're running scared. I must have given you way too much credit!"

"You are SO going to hell!" I shrieked.

"Yeah? Well I'll save you a seat!" he roared back over the rain, hitting the ball back at me.

God knows how his shots were still perfectly precise.

"Hey, NONE OF THIS IS MY FAULT!" I let the ball sail past me and forgot about it.

"Sure it's not sweetheart," he called, moving to the net.

"You kissed ME!"

"You kissed me BACK!" he growled.

And what could I say to that? Really, he was right. Absolutely right. And it was killing me.

I walked to him at the net, which was a mistake, as it must have allowed him to read my expression, dripping wet as I was, because he said smugly, "You see Melinda? You want me and you know it. No matter how much your head may try to deny it, your heart, and your body," he added with a smirk, "Wants me."

"I - that is - no way - I mean to say—" I gave up on words and flicked some water out of my eye.

"You can't deny it any longer Melinda."

"Im not denying anything!" I bit back furiously.

He smirked.

I'll admit that was a possible exaggeration. I'd been doing nothing but denying.

"You see kitten, the problem with sticking you're head in the sand is it leaves your ass more exposed."

Oh boy . . . was there ever truth in that.

"Poor kitten." He said cruelly. "To find out that's all you are after all this time . . ."

I chose to ignore he called me 'kitten'. AGAIN. I looked down at my racquet. A few strings had worn and looked to the point of snapping. These things weren't very durable.

"Doesn't it just kill you that I was right?"

"No." I said defiantly.

"Excuse me?"

"NO!" I thrust my chin up. "Want to know why? Because if you can use me, then I can use YOU!"

"Use you—?" he wasn't following, "I'm not using you—" I didn't let him finish.

I shut him up the only way I knew would work. I kissed him.

This time I did what I said I would. I used him, as I knew he was using me. Boy was he in for one hell of a trip, because I knew that was what he was trying to do to me.

Two are in on the game now.

Blood will be shed.

He wants me for one reason only. Soon as I give it to him—or let him think I'm giving it to him, I've got the upper hand.

Nick said he couldn't be manipulated. Wrong. He's a male isn't he? Males all have that one weakness.

Sex.

Good thing I'm such a quick learner.

Time to see what sort of prostitute I'd make. I leaned right over the net and pulled him to me—doing what prostitutes do best. Tricking their victim into believing they are the only one, all the while the victim is being manipulated into believing passion is all that exists and then . . . then they get hit with the price.

I concentrated being as mind numbingly seductive as I knew how, and seeing as I didn't actually know how . . . I went on instinct.

Funny thing instinct. _Raw. Primitive._ _Seductive. Dangerous . . . _

Another funny thing . . . CONTROL. This was the only time I'd seen Nick _surrender _control. Sure, I've seen him loose it—our Tennis match proved that, if nothing else—but I've never seen him surrender.

He was surrendering to a whore.

And that was fine by me. Surrender is the same, no matter how its come about.

I was enjoying his reaction to me as well. And was I ever getting a reaction out of him. A purely _physical _reaction.

His jaw . . . his ear . . . his neck . . . his mouth again, I used my teeth on his lip and that seemed to send him to breaking point, as he grabbed me and started returning the assault—which was NOT what I wanted. I moved my body off his and left him with one last taunting kiss . . . and then I pulled away completely.

He looked triumphant, like a cat with a bleeding canary trapped between its paws. More fool for him.

The canary wasn't finished.

"And you said I had no control . . ." I whispered, "I want you to know . . . You will NEVER leave me powerless."

I turned and walked away, flipping my racquet over my shoulder and concentrating on making sure Nicks last look at me would give off the illusion of confidence and power.

Two things I'd always have, and would do _anything _to make sure I always had.

All I'd done tonight was get myself angry—way angry—then I evened the playing field a little. You want to play with me Nick? Watch my claws.

I waited until I was out the tennis courts and out of Nick's sight before I let my shoulders drop and the tennis racquet fall.

It hardly mattered now.

This couldn't go on.

I didn't want this, I mournfully thought, as I slid down the tennis changing room walls and sat there helplessly in the rain, letting it hit my face and roll of.

That way I'd never know the difference between tears and rain.

_I'm falling apart!_ I realised. I DIDN'T WANT THIS. I didn't want to have to play stupid games to be left alone! I just wanted it to stop! Him to stop chasing me, me to stop responding—both sexually and mentally—all of it.

One thing was for sure. The games were going to stop.

**X-X-X**

Later that day, I was sitting out in the courtyard wishing I smoked—it's supposed to calm you down, right? —When my cell phone went off. Again. I fumbled in my jacket pocket for the small device and flipped it open. "What?" I snapped in the direction of the mouthpiece.

"Melinda?" a confused voice came through.

"Father Dominic? _Shit—"_

"Melinda!"came a shocked voice.

"Oh, I mean—uh, can I start again?" I didn't wait for an answer. "Hello, Melinda speaking."

" . . . Hello Melinda."

Damn.

"Hi Father!" I said guiltily. "Hows life treating you?"

"Better than it is you," he said, speaking wryly. Well, as wryly as a priest CAN speak.

"What . . . what do you mean?"

"Stacy's murderer."

"Oh."

Silence.

I decided the Ferndale's courtyards weren't exactly the perfect place for this sort of discussion. But then, there was no one around . . .

I wonder how Father D got my cell phone number? I mean, I don't _mind, _I just—ah. Mom. Duh. I always knew she and Father D were tight.

There was some more silence.

"So . . ." I decided to go for broke and confide it all in Father D. Who better than a priest?

"Father Dom, don't you think it's weird that nothing _paranormal _has happened in ages?"

I'm sorry; did I say 'confide it all'? What I really meant was 'confide some of it.'

"Yes," he said flatly, sounding pleased. "To be honest with you, I'm getting a little worried about how keenly Susannah seems to look upon that _mecumba _thing of hers."

He was right to be worried.

He doesn't know the half of it.

She told me this great plan involving exorcisms _Brazilian voodoo style_, but dad caught us with the stuff and took the Chicken blood off us, saying Father Dominic would disapprove.

But he didn't say _he _disapproved, so I wondered . . .

"You know Father, even dad agrees—" I began.

"Absolutely not." he interrupted. "I said NO Melinda and I meant it. So far we've seen no direct action from this spirit. There is every possibility that it was a misunderstanding and this ghost deserves Gods forgiveness—"

Tsk tsk.

"Are you SERIOUS?" I demanded, "The guy threw my mother out a WINDOW!"

"Perhaps it was an accident . . ."

Wow. He . . . Really believes in the good of mankind.

Shame.

"I don't think so. But then _why has he done nothing for so long?_ I mean, I don't get it Father Dom. Why would he make it perfectly clear that he's going to case as much damage as possible . . . and then just STOP?"

"He may have moved on." Said Father Dom seriously.

"I . . . I don't think so. I just _know, _I can feel it. Call it . . . " I smiled ironically to myself, "Call it shifters intuition."

Or an overdose . . .

"Its possible," he admitted, his voice lightening, "But you're not just a shifter Melinda, you're gifted in more ways that one, with you're parents—"

I rolled my eyes and crossed my legs, and absently watched a bird in one of the tree's flit from branch to branch.

I knew what he was going to say. With so much freakishness in my genes there is no way I could have escaped being "_special". _Gotcha Father D.

My Dad was a GHOST for chrissakes. I mean, how many test cases has their been like this?

I bet I know.

"I see." I said impassively.

Again with this _gift _stuff. I'm not even going to GO there.

"What I called for, Melinda, was to tell you to be careful. No—" he said firmly, as I showed signs of interrupting, "I mean it. Be cautious."

He truly cared.

What could I say to that?

I had that sore feeling at the back of my throat, and my eyes felt prickly. NOT that I was going to _cry _or anything . . . I was just moved. "I—I'll try Father."

"It's all anyone can ask." He said slowly. "I'll see you at school Melinda. Wish Miss Keklt a Happy Birthday from us at the Mission." He added, and then terminated the call.

I sat back on my bed and stared at the wall for a while.

There was no one more perfect for giving your conscience an unintentional jab than a Priest.

**X-X-X**

"_Cogida,"_ I cursed. I'd just dropped my towel, spilling all my gear onto the perfect white tiles.

My bathing suit splayed out across the aforesaid tiles, and I snatched it back up quickly before anyone could see, which was quite pointless as there was no one around _to _see, but all rationality had already been shot to bits earlier this week.

I stepped into one of the pool's changing kiosks and slipped on my suit— A Jehene Raomas one piece, royal blue with a twisted front . . . I'm sure it sounds ugly, but trust me, would I be wearing it if it were? No way.

And then I got the hell of the there and slipped into the pool.

. . . Bliss.

I moved out into the middle of the pool (and the pool was odd, it sloped inwards, so the deepest point was the middle) and let the water seep into my skin and flow around me, keeping absolutely still until the disturbance I caused by moving had settled and the water stilled, accepting me.

I know that sound's weird, but that's how I've always felt about water. You have to wait for it to accept you. Same with fire, only I wasn't exactly about to stick my hand in that and wait for the burning to stop. I'm not that stupid. That time I stuck my hand on the oven element doesn't count. I was a toddler! My point is _submission. _You're never going to dominate this power. Same with all the elements, Earth, Fire, Water and Air.

They were all beautiful, and they were all deadly.

But bowing to the power of the element, you were embracing it, and it you.

. . . That could be just me, but I believe it with all my heart.

With all my . . . heart . . .

Maybe I really am insane, I thought, not for the first time. But then again. I never had a shot of being anything else.

I'm not going to bring up the dead people point again, but it's there.

Oh, Dr Phil . . .? Urgent call on line one . . .

This had to end, I resolved. NOW. It had to end NOW.

I kicked myself up onto my back and closed my eyes,

Thinking of nothing I just floated there with a blank mind.

Then out of the Blue I abruptly found cold water tipped over my face.

I opened my eyes, spluttering, and saw Nick in the water next to me not looking at all like he regretted dumping water over my face. I sat up and spluttered a little bit more then asked, "Do you have a reason for trying to drown me, or was that just a whim?"

"No, no. You just looked like you'd really love me . . . ." he paused intentionally, "to come and tip some icy water on you."

"DON'T," I warned tiredly, "use that word around me. I don't CARE what context . . . That word is forbidden, understand?"

"What, Love? Why?" he said softly, using his hands to push aside the vase he'd used to tip water over me out of his way, and moving towards me.

I hope he cleaned that vase before filling it with water. Otherwise he'd just tipped a whole lot of plant residue over my face. As much as I love Nature—mom disagrees with me on this. She thinks nature is out to get her—That might have been taking it a little too far.

"Scared I might say something you don't want to hear?" Nick continued, reaching over to me and grabbing my hand, "Like . . . I love you?"

"You're a pathological liar." I said coldly, "Is there any wonder I don't want to hear it?" I lifted his hand off mine and tried to move away, which was kind of futile because as quick as . . . oh, a mongoose say, he grabbed my hand again and pulled me back again.

"What's the harm Melinda?" he said, "Scared I'm going to ask you to marry me?"

He then – comically I thought – brought my hand up to his lips and kissed it gently before asking me to marry him is his most sombre voice.

I almost laughed.

"You know," he said, dropping the pretend voice, "You wouldn't find spending your life with me so bad you know. Like you'd be happier with someone else," he laughed, "You'd get bored!"

"Yeah? Trust me Nick. I'm not marrying you just so you can screw me. Hell will freeze over first."

We were joking about the marriage thing. I knew that. But we weren't exactly joking about the meaning behind it.

I'll say it again though, just to save confusion: I DO NOT LOVE NICK. NOR WILL I FUCK HIM WHEN HE WANTS ME TO.

I have class.

CINDY DOESN'T.

GOSH.

_Idiots! _Learn the difference!

Heck yeah!

"Like you could hack being married to me and not getting sex for your troubles." Nick said with a self-confident smirk. Jackass. "In case you haven't noticed Melinda, you're an extremely passionate person, you just haven't had the right guy to . . . awaken, your inner—"

"Skank?" I supplied.

"No—"

"I'm not going to be sleeping with you."

"Really? The way you dance with me would indicate otherwise."

"So you think my DANCING is sending you _fuck me _signals? NO! I just DANCE. I'm a very . . ."

"Passionate dancer." He said with a nod. "I know. It's who you are. Melinda, and I said Passionate. Not slut. Although the signals were there . . ."

Can't argue with that.

"True," I said brazenly, "but that doesn't change anything."

"Right. So," he said, leaning close to me, "According to you, I just want you to screw me?"

He was sounding angry again. Why though? I just spoke the truth. Unusual for me, but I was ready for a little bit of truth. I couldn't keep fighting him; I had to make him understand WHY I was fighting.

"You know Nick, One day I'm going to say _yes_. What will you do them, hmm? Will that be what it will take for you to drop me? To let you amuse yourself with me for a week, then you get bored and leave me?" There was as seriousness to my question, and I wanted his answer.

I really believed it what I'd said too.

J. K. Rowling got it right. In one of the Harry Potters, Dumbledore had said: "Ah, how often this happens to us Harry, even between friends. Each of us believes what they have to say is more important than what the other has to say."

Take away the magic, the old guy, and the dude with the scar, the castle, and the characters—Here we were.

"Because you know what?" I said, "I'm tired of this, I'm just . . . tired. Have me then." I said shamelessly, "But once you're finished, leave me the hell alone."

"Melinda, no—!"

Funny. I'd just offered him exactly what it was he wanted and he's STILL yabbering.

TAKE WHAT'S OFFERED ALREADY!

"—I don't know what sort of guy you seem to think I am, but—" He stopped and took a step closer to me and just looked at me.

. . . Maybe he didn't just want—no. Impossible. _Impossible . . . _

"Yes?" I said, sucking in my breath. His mouth was like, two millimetres away from mine. I couldn't help but wonder what he was thinking . . .

"Hey, are we interrupting?" said a voice from the side of the pool.

Funny how people always ask that when they KNOW they're interrupting. WHY ELSE WOULD THEY ASK THAT?

A girl with red hair stood at the edge of the pool, so she must have been the— 'are we interrupting?' one. She then shrugged and slid into the pool, followed by some jock, Alanna, Daniel, and—would you believe it? WILFRED AND FRIEND IN SWIMMING TRUNKS.

In a way, I should be glad for the interruption. Nick and I were really getting into some deep stuff. I sort of drifted away from him, needing some solitude to think. I pulled myself out of the pool and sat on the side kicking my legs in the water as I thought.

You know. There comes to a point where you think too much. You deny and deny until you forget what you had been denying.

Was it time to stop? Time to stop playing games and just live on the emotions?

Like Nick and me.

I'd been fighting against . . . well, whatever it was, for so long, I'd forgotten why I was fighting but I carried on anyway.

You can't beat fate; she's the Ultimate. And I was ready to bow to her.

Nick was getting out of the pool now and coming over to me. I stood up and waited for him to reach me. Then, slowly, so slowly, I pulled him towards me. I let him completely read whatever emotion was in my eyes, letting him in completely. He saw I trusted him before I let my eyelids close and kissed him softly on the lips.

He kissed me back.

It was a bit of a change from our usual violent, force-a-response kisses.

And it was the sweetest feeling in the world. I shut my brain off and just went with it, surrendering completely to him, letting my body fall against his as he supported me, and pulling me comfortably close.

I wasn't aware of someone coming up behind me until I felt myself falling—Typical. I'm always bloody falling—into the pool.

I looked up to see Ben (Wilfred's buddy) turning away and saying jokingly, "God you two, at it again. I'm telling you," he said confidingly to Wilfred, "You just can't keep them off each other."

Wilfred, Alanna and Daniel all had the biggest grins on their faces, because, for all they knew, this was BIG.

And it was.

I looked up at Nick to see him smiling at me and I smiled back at him. Then he said to me as I slid my arms up around his neck and let them rest, "Melinda, it's because _I love you_ that I feel I have to do this—"

What he DID was pick me up and dunk me under the water. I hadn't time to digest his words . . . _I love you . . . _

Of course, naturally, his actions started a huge dunking war, involving anyone and everyone.

And for the first time in our lives, Nick and I were on the same team.

**X-X-X**

**Now I think I need some love people. Exams are depressing things. **

**Or maybe it's the cardboard box that's depressing me.**

**I'm undecided. **

**Love and kisses,**

**Mariah.**


	13. SEX

**Hullo my darlings!!!**

**I'VE finished my exams!!! Dunno about passed, but WHO CARES? Nothing I can do about it now.**

**. . . Except sleep with the markers. **

**Which presents some problems if they're female.**

**But, that aside, I have for you; another chapter. Many thanks to **xtotallyatpeacex** for putting up with me. This was, by FAR, the hardest chapter I've ever done; both my most favourite and hated, so I HOPE YOU APPRECIATE IT. **

**It was difficult for several reasons, **

**Number **One: **I will explain at the bottom of the page because it's a spoiler, **

**Number** Two: **It was just damn DIFFICULT to write, but I love-love-LOVE the direction. **

**However, that's not to say you will. **

**BEWARE, I really start to earn my **T **rating in this chapter, so CONSIDER YOURSELF WARNED.**

**X**

**SEX**

True to females everywhere, I never actually realised how many bags I had. Until I had to pack them, that is.

"Oww!!!" I yelped as Alanna finally lost patience and in a move of desperation, hurtled my—empty—suitcases, one after the other, across the room at me.

"Pack!!" she demanded.

I HAD been packing. Just . . . slowly. The arranging of my assorted Betsey Johansen and Calvin Klein is a process that cannot be hurried. I mentioned this to Alanna.

She just sighed.

"Hey." I said. "Not my fault! I don't DO mornings!!!! And besides; don't you be looking all _down_ on my shallowness, girl!"

That was my Gangsta talk. Good, eh? Or . . . not.

"I'm allowed!!" I continued, "And furthermore, who was it I saw fluffing in front of the mirror for a good THREE HOURS before Daniel picked her up???"

It wasn't Wilfred. That's all I'm saying.

The girl in question (Alanna. Duh.) Flushed.

"Yeah . . ." I was triumphant. "That was YOU, Miss Slutty Mc Slut Slut."

"Unjust!!! I am in now way a Slutty Mc—What did you call me?"

"Slutty Mc Slut Slut."

"Yes, THAT. Daniel _understands _about—"

"Your unwillingness to put out?" I teased.

"Well, maybe I wouldn't have said it like that, but . . . Yes."

"I know," I sat on the top of my suitcase—Now a quarter full!—And batted my eyelashes. "I have a way with words."

Alanna groaned. "Something like that. Of course, some would call it an incapacity to shut up . . . "

"Forget some." I agreed. "Try _most."_

She smiled.

"I think its sweet that you and Daniel decided to wait." I gave the verdict. Go me. "Pure romanticism and all that. And it's perfect for you two."

Alanna blushed. "So not a life of chastity for you and Nick, then?"

"Ha," I laughed, "I might tell him that, see how he takes it. It'll be good for his blood pressure."

**(A/N: Warning. Religious joke. Couldn't resist.)**

Sure it would be good for his blood pressure . . . and the Virgin Mary's a dirty, dirty skank.

**(A/N: Joke over. My apologies.)**

"I really think I love him. Daniel, I mean, not Nick."

Well _Duh_. For Alanna, I imagine Goldmember off Austin Powers would hold more appeal than Nick. Well . . . almost.

Funny how she was the last to know she loved Daniel.

"And you know he loves you." I said.

She smiled softly.

"But ask him if he's ever seen Shanghi Knights."

She frowned. "I don't think so . . . why?"

"You know. He breaks your heart, I break his legs."

She made a face.

Pretty girl, Alanna. Her and Daniel were a perfect match, and in many more ways than just appearance.

"He's so sweet, and courteous and kind and gentle . . . and when he kisses me—"

"OK!!!!!!" I interrupted, "Stop, stop, I'm packing now, I promise!! Jeez . . . all you needed to do was ask."

She threw a shoe at me. I ducked and it landed in my suitcase. With any luck, Alanna was going to have my suitcase entirely packed soon.

**X-x-X**

He met me downstairs and threw me his keys.

I missed. "Hey, wait, _what_???" I was confused, definitely not at my best.

"My mistake." Nick grinned and fished his keys from the ground at my feet. "I should have remembered how lousy your reflexes are in the morning."

"Yeah?" I hefted one of my (Full!) suitcases up and threw it at him, "What about—"

He caught it.

And then laughed at me.

"Go boil your head." I muttered.

"Witty . . ." he smirked. "I want you to drive my car back to Carmel for me." He grabbed my other suitcase from the bottom of the stairwell and started out the door with both of them.

"What, Why?" Then I understood. Or thought I did. "OK, what's gone wrong?" I skipped over a puddle in the gravel, "There is no way you'd let me drive your car unless something was seriously wrong."

I followed him out to his BMW and he popped the trunk and stashed my bags. "I'm going to se a friend of mine," he replied, turning to me, "And I thought the best way to get you to go without argument was to give you a fast car."

I acquiesced, "that's true."

"And before you ask, I'm borrowing a car to get to my friends."

" . . . Is it faster than this one?" I asked innocently.

"No." He smiled, seeing where I was going. "So." He strided around to the car door, opened it, and stuck the keys in the ignition. "Be careful—" I rolled my eyes. "AND—" He kissed me quickly on the lips, "Don't go looking for trouble."

"Between here and Carmel?" I scoffed, "yeah, it will be a journey fraught with peril."

He hugged me in response. "I mean It." then, "I'll see you back in Carmel."

Fine by me, I decided, sliding into the drivers' seat of the BMW. FAST CAR, FAST CAR.

Three minutes later I was on the road, sliding past the landmarks and enthusiastically praising all things BMW.

I'd actually enjoyed my stay at the resort. Not just because I to shoot people and make out with Nick, either.

Ok. Mostly that.

Great faculties though!!!!

. . . Yeah.

Like any true American girl in a FAST CAR I had the stereo up and great song on. I hummed along with the song, happy with my foot hard on the accelerator.

So please excuse me Mr.  
You've

got things all wrong  
You make if feel like a crime  
So

don't confuse me Mr.  
I've known you too long  
All I need is a little of your time

For most love comes for free  
They don't pay the high cost  
Of

mental custody  
I'll pay bail for a guarantee  
Please make space for me  
In the time yet to be  
Excuse me... Excuse me Mr.  
I've been waiting in

line  
And I'd like to buy  
Some of your time  
I've been saving up my life,  
What's your price?

A bunch of static interrupted my (Number one!!! Not.) Solo. I frowned and leant over to fix the dial.

Just my luck to _break_ Nick's car. Ooh, that would be BAD.

I kept fiddling with the dial, but the static was just getting worse and worse—

"Don't you just HATE that?" murmured a voice beside me.

I screamed and slammed my foot on the brakes, and we were thrown forward. I say WE because beside, me, in the passenger seat, (NOT worrying about a seatbelt. Fucking know-it-all.) Was a ghost. THE ghost.

I knew it was him. How I knew that was irrelevant, but I could PICTURE him making Stacy kill herself . . . while he laughed.

Snapping Brian's neck . . . And laughing.

"No . . ." I whispered, staring at him.

"Yeah." He exhaled, obviously enjoying himself. I didn't say anything I was too frozen. "A _pleasure,"_ he continued, "At long last!"

God, Stacy was right. This guy wasn't too easy on the eyes. He had the look of a stereotypical mechanic; fat and sleazy.

I swallowed. "Er, Hi. Would you mind fixing the radio? That would be great . . ."

"Why?" he smiled condescendingly. "It won't matter, you'll be dead soon anyway."

OK!!!!! That's—that's—NOT VERY NICE!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I was determined to show calmness, however. I put the car back in **D**rive (**D** for drag!!!) and eased back on to the road. "Uh, who EXACTLY are you?"

I mean, I knew who he WAS, but I didn't know who he WAS if you follow.

"Keith." He replied with a sneer. "Just Keith."

"Well . . . er, Keith. Fix it, please."

Keith sighed dramatically but stoped the static and flicked the radio off. "It's almost a shame this has to end." He said, adjusting the passenger seat and stretching out.

I couldn't help but feel disgusted. "Why am I going to die?" I asked.

"Simple. You're in the way. I want you to know, this has been fun. You're friend Stacy was such a trick. The way she _screamed _and _cried. _And you're little gay friend! Don't worry about him though; I made sure he knew he was dying because of you. That it was all . . . your . . . _Fault_." He finished, leering horribly at me.

They died because of me . . .

I gritted my teeth and stared straight ahead. I was close to loosing it. So close.

"Go on," he taunted me. "Cry. Give up. _Beg_."

"Fuck." I whispered slowly and clearly, "You."

"LOOK AT ME." he demanded suddenly, "LOOK AT ME!!!!"

I looked at him. Sort of.

Lets just thank God it was a relatively deserted road. Otherwise creamed corn and the BMW (Not to mention me,) would have had a lot in common.

And, when I say look at him, I mean that I got a pretty good look at him when I twisted my torso around in my seat, grabbed _Keith_ by the side of his head, and smash his face into the dashboard.

Although I didn't give it much thought at the time, I managed to smash some glass out with Keith's head. Which meant (According to senor Slater,) that this was no freshman ghost. He, Keith, could touch stuff, REAL STUFF with ease.

I was in big trouble.

I let go of him quickly and tried to ease my foot off the accelerator, but it was stuck fast. I threw a look at Keith, whose neck had snapped back against the seat. I was disgusted to see his nose moving back into place. "Bitch!!!" He shouted, throwing out a hand and catching me on the side of the face. "Not ready yet?" he said, looking at me horribly, "You need more persuasion then."

My face stung and I felt a great pressure on my foot, it was being forced down, till the accelerator was flat against the floor, I screamed and put my hands back on the wheel.

It was no good.

The corner was coming up too fast—

At the last minute, I released the wheel, and grabbed Keith by the front and threw him forward, a reaction more than anything.

I squeezed my eyes tightly shut and waited for the impact.

**X-X-X**

Fog. A lot of it.

And doors. A lot of them as well.

I had no IDEA where I was. I was lying all alone in a misty corridor thing, which seemed to go on forever.

I pulled myself up from the ground an took a look around to see if I'd missed something, anything to help me get out.

. . . Not a thing.

I sunk back down to the foggy floor. This didn't look like a place where I'd find an emergency exit just around the corner.

And I had no idea if I should try a door, but only one of them could be the right one and there were a lot more than one.

WHAT HAPPENED???

Last thing I remember was Keith showing up in the car—the car!!!!

Ooh, I am so screwed, I crashed Nick's car, and he's going to KILL me!!!!!!

That is, if I wasn't already dead. Which was a possibility. But If I were dead, would I know as much?

No, I'm pretty sure I'm not dead. I was a little weirded out by this place, but not dead.

Which means Keith didn't kill me.

SUCK ON THAT, you evil murdering, BASTARDO.

Where was he anyway???? It was my turn to BEAT THE CRAP FROM HIS ASS.

I needed to get out of here.

I gathered my feet under me and went to push off the ground, when suddenly there were hands helping me up, of course, it didn't register that these hands were helping hands instead of hurting hands, because I may have kick boxed the body attactched to the helping hands.

"OWW!!!!!" yelped a voice.

"Oh god!!!! I'm sorry mom, I didn't see it was you!!!!!"

"Oh, that's great." Mom straightened up and winced. "Just great, I raised a gangster."

I grabbed her and hugged her. "I'm sorry."

"Its fine," mom shrugged, "Good reflexes."

I love my mom.

"So." I let go of her, "Where's the exit?"

Mom rolled her eyes. "Whatever you do, DON'T open any doors, DON'T ask the doorman if he's a gladiator, and DON'T try to find the exit. Just close your eyes and picture being at home. Try the living room. And get ready for a killer HEADACHE."

This was getting a little too Wizard of Oz for me, but I squeezed my eyes shut and did it anyway.

There was a weird feeling of not belonging, and then I opened my eyes and was there.

Home.

That's a nifty little trick, though. Materialization. Who would have thought?

THAT'S going to save me some petrol.

"Oww." I mumbled, something finally registering. "I hurt."

"Really?' Mom said, rolling her eyes as she helped me over to the couch, "Could that be because you drove a BMW convertible into a telephone pole?"

I opened my mouth to make a sarcastic reply, found I didn't have one, and closed my mouth.

I really hit the pole?

Damn.

It didn't hurt that much though. Not all over. But my head felt like it had been hit with a croquet mallet.

Don't ask me how I know that feeling. You don't want to know.

I closed my eyes and grimaced. Nick was going to KILL me.

"Melinda?" dad called out.

"In the living room!" mom replied.

"Melinda." dad said flatly, coming into the room. I know this because his voice was suddenly that much louder. "Could you possibly—" he grabbed my wrist and started doing whatever it is that doctors do to make sure the patients still alive.

Is that all you had to be able to do to get through law school? Tell if someone was alive or not?

Shit, I could do that.

"—Possibly fill us in on the sequence of events that lead us to you wrapping Nick Slaters car around a telephone pole?"

Where to start? And where to finish? And what to say in between?

I didn't really want to tell them all about Keith. They'd never let me out of the house ever again.

And that just _did not_ work for me.

"I barely remember," I hedged, "in fact, I don't remember. At all."

As far as lies go, not one of my best, but whatever.

"No." said dad firmly. "Try answer that question again, please, _truthfully_ this time."

'I'm not—I didn't—ok. I lied. What gave it away?"

"Besides the fact that you have absolutely no amnesic symptoms? Your pulse sped up for a few seconds before you spoke."

I snatched my arm back off the know-it-all-Doctor.

"So what are you so worried about Melinda?"

Ooh, SNAP.

"Remember that ghost you were a little . . . _bothered_ about?" I began hesitantly.

"_Yes._" Said dad emphatically.

"Basically . . ." No easy way to really tell _this _story. "The ghost had been . . . inactive, for so long to lull us into a false sense of security. His name is Keith, he's all about mentally fucking around with people—" dad's expression didn't change, "—and he tried to kill me in Nick's—in the car. I grabbed him before we hit and he . . . well, I dunno."

"He shifted to shadowland." Mum filled in. "You were in contact with him so you went with him. If Paul's right, he was a shifter and could shift out."

IF "Paul" is right. Big IF. Although I didn't say that out loud.

Not having much of a death wish and all.

"This is going to stop." Dad said. I knew what he meant, but I also know what Father Dominic would say. There's no strong PROOF that Keith was behind all this. He'd say Keith deserve god's chance.

Who knows? Father Dominic might be right.

But I doubt it.

Trust, too much trust, is only going to get you hurt. Look at Dumbledore!!!! He trusted, and as a result he DIED, and the world was thrown into mourning.

No.

Slater is so sure an exorcism won't work. I figure I'll try it anyway. And if he's right . . . I'll improvise. With my fists.

This bastard is after me. What I have to do was wait for him to come to me again, and then give him a bit of a surprise.

As in, "OH SHIT, I'M IN HELL" surprise.

And it's no more than he'd deserve.

**X-x-X**

"You didn't."

"I _did_."

"You didn't!!!"

"Oh. He did." Arabia assured us. "I had to take him to the hospital afterwards."

"_Whoa_." We all looked at Scott with a newfound respect.

"I know, I know," He held up his hands and tried to look modest. "I'll never again be able to look at Zoo animals in the same way."

We ate in silence for a few minutes; no doubt everyone was wondering why Scott hadn't been awarded a knighthood already. I know I was.

"Hey, hand over that ketchup."

"Nuh uh." I said, glaring at Arabia. "I'm not _done_."

She rolled her eyes at me, but waited for me to finish drowning my hot chips in ketchup. Satisfied – at last – I handed over the ketchup.

You can't have Carmel mall hot chips WITHOUT lots of ketchup. It's just not done. Hee. It's UN-DOABLE.

"So, Melinda, how are you folks?" she glanced up at me, and stuck a fry in her mouth.

"Oh, fine," I answered, stretching out on the mall bench. "Speaking of parents, did you know Stacy's mom invited me around?" Arabia frowned. "I know. She said she wanted Nick to come too. Whatever's up with that."

Ugh. Can't think about Nick right now. He still doesn't know about his car.

God.

"That's kinda weird," Alanna said, "no one—Oh my gosh!!!!" she cried suddenly, "WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR FACE!!!!!!!!!!!"

"It's always been—" Scott started.

"No, look!!!" Alanna protested, leaning towards me and shifting my hair, "LOOK!!!!"

I pulled back sharply. "Hey!!!" I cried.

They'd found where Keith had got me in the side of the face. And, as fucking usual, I was the centre of attention with everyone wanting to know if I was OK.

And a mall really isn't a good place for a private discussion. People STARE. And stare and stare and STARE SOME MORE.

I can understand now why mom hates them (Malls) so much.

"What happened?" Daniel asked, wincing.

"IT NOT THAT BAD, OK!!!!!!!!" I shouted, offended by the _oh-that-must-have-hurt_ face's being pulled by everyone. "And I'm fine. Nothing—"

It was at this point that I found myself at a learning curve. Being all cryptic and 'nothing happened!' wouldn't do me any good. It would just get everyone more interested.

But now . . . I have a chance to be creative.

"Oh." I said with what I hoped was a sheepish expression, "I managed to . . ." I adopted a hesitant tone, "Well, I . . . walked into a pole."

They looked at me

And looked at me.

And looked at me SOME MORE.

And then Scott started laughing. I took a closer look at those scrutinising me, and realised they were all trying _so_ hard not to laugh.

"It's OK." I said, tilting my head and looking like I found something extremely embarrassing, "You can laugh."

They did.

And things carried on as normal.

And normal is best . . . Keith just loves interrupting normal.

We were having lunch (We'd already done the shopping part. I brought these GREAT shoes. They were plain black stilettos with a height equivalent to the length of my hand. Walking was going to be the trick, but WHO CARED??? They were so flickin.)

I went back to hogging the sauce . . .

Scott was sharing more stories that ended with him at the Hospital/Police Station/Bus stop . . .

Until our conversation found its way to Nick.

"I wonder why he isn't here yet." Mused Arabia. " I called him and left a message, telling him to meet us here."

"What time was that?" asked Daniel, "I know he went to visit a friend of his or some such thing but I don't think he planned on being away long, I thought he'd be back by now."

"Around half an hour ago."

"Hmm."

"That's right!" added Alanna, "I thought it was odd . . . he asked me to make sure Melinda didn't end up killing herself while he was gone."

UNFAIR!!!!

It's OTHER people trying to kill me!!! THAT'S the problem!!!!

I didn't voice this objection, however. I just kinda . . . sat there and felt bad.

I hadn't even talked to him.

What kind of girlfriend am I??????

I made up my mind to text him. I whipped my cell phone out under the table and nodded occasionally as Daniel began to talk.

**Hae, I killed ure wheels **

DELETE.

**Is ure car insured?**

DELETE.

**I O U**

DELETE!!!!!!!!!

**I am so sorry**

SEND.

I twisted my phone closed and drummed my fingers on the table listening to the last of Daniels conversation.

"So, I went to the Doctor this morning and asked him to give me something the migraines. Speaking of," he glanced at his watch. "I'm supposed to take three now. Anyone got any water?"

"Uh, somewhere," I said distractedly, looking up from my cell phone—like watching it was going to make him text me—and saw that Daniel did, in fact have a prescription bottle in his hand, filled with bluey coloured pills.

OK, the guys legit.

Thought we had a druggie on our hands here.

I rummaged through my bag, found bottled water, and chucked it to him.

"The old man's gotta take his meds." Joked Scott.

Everyone ignored him.

"Hey, look who it is," Daniel said, pausing with the water bottle halfway to his mouth and abandoning his attempts to beat the childproof seal on his medication bottle. "How's the friend?" He grinned at someone behind me.

I jumped off the bench and spun around, knowing who was back. Striding towards us past the hoards of other shoppers was Nick, with a funny look on his face.

Reaching us, he didn't pause for words, but surprised me, reaching out and grabbing me in a bone-crushing hug.

I was stunned.

He was hugging me when I CREAMED his BMW??????????????????

Well fuck me.

I had no IDEA what was going on here.

"Why the HELL didn't you call me???" He demanded, not letting go of me.

"I—" I stumbled over my words, "I sent you at text . . ." Yes. Deep and meaningful text that it was.

"_When_?"

"Oh, uh, just then." I mumbled.

"I thought you were DEAD," he said angrily, "No one knew where—"

"I'm fine," I said quickly, pulling away and taking a step back. We were drawing a lot of attention, and I didn't need that. In fact, I needed that like I needed my organs splattered along a backcountry road.

NOT AT ALL.

"Fuck." He said quietly, then louder, "_Fuck!_"

People were staring. Scot had even paused while eating; he still held a hotdog halfway to his mouth. And Daniel, Arabia and Alannah were watching me way too intently for my peace of mind. And having them knowing about the car crash was DEFINITELY another problem I could do without.

"We need to leave," I said quietly, gesturing Nick to follow me as I weaved out of the food court. Some of the shoppers had been watching our scene with avid interest; others were carrying on their daily lives. I glanced behind me and saw Nick following me with a frown on his face.

I'm in it now, I thought. Now Nick's gotten the pleasant _'oh, you're not dead, how nice,_' out of the way now he could move onto the: _'what the fuck did you do to my car, you crazy bitch?!?!'_

Which would be pretty understandable. I hadn't seen the wreck, but both the look on dad's face and the memory of the solidity of that tree as it got closer and closer . . . Well, it was enough to clue me in.

I couldn't find a relatively unpopulated place, so I went where few people as possible liked to dwell.

The guy's bathrooms.

"So . . ." I hesitated, once I had gotten in there—and it STUNK—and had turned to face Nick. "You've seen you car then?"

"Yes I've seen the car," he said, looking me straight in the eye. "And how the HELL did you get out of that???"

"Oh. Um . . ."

"I can't _believe _you're alive," he murmured, pulling me back toward him.

"Nick, don't," I said, moving away from him again. "I'm sorry about your car, I swear I . . . well I . . . I am so, so sorry," I finished quietly.

"The car?" he said with a frown, "Yeah, it's pretty smashed up, but it's all taken care of, so don't worry about it."

I just stared at him.

And stared.

And stared at him.

And stared SOME MORE.

That car was worth, like, fucking HEAPS, and I know how guys can get attactched to their cars. Yet here Nick stands telling me NOT TO WORRY????????????

So he'd been angry because he was _worried_? About _me? _

_Unbelievable. _

I mean, mom and dad were worried about me, of course they were, they're my parents.

But Nick wasn't—he didn't have to—he cared because—

Holy shit, mother of god, fuck it!!!!! El COGIDA!!!!!!!!!!!

That's just . . . that is . . . I didn't know what to think. Either Nick had LESS than his share of screws left or . . . or . . .

I couldn't even contemplate THAT.

"Melinda," Nick said, "I saw that car—dad called me, I don't know how he knew—and I though I'd see you inside it, crushed up worse than the front fender."

Well, I thought to myself, if I hadn't grabbed Keith, I probably would have been. Air bag's can only do so much.

"You have no idea how I—" he broke off and looked at me. "Well. It doesn't matter now. What I wasn't to know, is how you got out, _unhurt."_

Well, unhurt other than the side of my face. I'm telling you, IF MY FACE ENDS UP NEEDING MILLIONS OF DOLLARS WIRTH OF WORK WHEN I'M OLD, I KNOW WHO I'LL BE BLAMING.

"The-ghost-was-in-the-­car­-that's-why-I-crashed-" I reasoned saying this all really fast might make it less fantastical, "and-he-jammed-the-accelerator­-and-I-grabbed-him-before-impact-and-he-must-have-shifted-to-that-shadowland-place."

Nick nodded once; apparently having followed all I'd just said at high speed, and said, "That works. And Dad would know because one of his ghosts would have sensed a problem up in the astral plane."

"Wait, what???" I gasped, "He's been, like, FOLLOWING ME???"

"Not exactly. But he always knows when something goes wrong with a ghost involved. A long time ago he made it his business to, well, sense disturbances in the force, shall we say?"

"So he doesn't KNOW about you—you with me?????"

"No," Nick said, "You were being watched . . . but it was only at the resort."

"WHAT??? I'm not—I don't—_who??_"

"Me. Your parents asked if I'd keep an eye on you, as your ghost seems to only target you when your alone."

That's bullshit, I thought but didn't say. That was all part of his 'False sense of security' trap.

"My dad AGREED to you shadowing me?" I asked.

"He wants you safe, more than anything."

I could understand it. I didn't LIKE it, but I could understand it.

The MENS door unexpectedly opened and a fair-haired guy about our age walked in. I think I recognised him as being one of the RLS guys. A footballer, I think. "Uh, sorry guy's," he said, "I didn't mean to—Hey, this is a men's toilet. Does she know that?"

"Yeah, she knows that." Answered Nick, with a sudden grin.

"Dude . . ." The unfamiliar guy winked at Nick and pulled one of those guy faces, the _Someone's-­getting-some-tonight!!! _Face, then he turned and left.

"Wonder if I'll get my name scrawled on the guys room walls for this?" I asked Nick with a smile.

"Oh, it's already there," he assured me, returning my smile.

"Really?" I asked with no small amount of interest. "Brilliant. What's it say???"

"We should get out of the bathroom." He said in was of an answer. "Everyone's probably wondering where we are. And why I was so glad you were alive."

We got out of the guys toilets—not a moment too soon either. Boy's toilets smell HORRIBLE. What do guys do, piss on the walls???? I want to know.

I was absurdly happy, I realised as we walked back into the throng of people, to have things OK between Nick and myself again. It was odd. Fucked-in-the-head-ghost-intent-on-spilling-my-blood, sure no problem, I try and lure him back. However, Totalling a car belonging to Nick causes me no end of distress.

I truly am fucked in the head.

"Hey!" Arabia called once we got within yelling distance. "What's going on??"

"Calm down, Arabia." I said once we got to the table. "We just had a small misunderstanding."

"Explain." She said.

"Oh," I said happily, smiling at her facial expression as I had a sudden flash of inspiration. "Nick's dad's going senile."

I saw, out of the corner of my eye, Nick roll his eyes. He didn't look too upset though.

Probably because it's TRUE. I mean, who HAS a spy network of dead people????

WEIRDO'S, that's who.

"I understand." Said Arabia, looking very much the opposite. "Anyway. Nick, you'll have lunch with us?"

"Sure." He replied easily.

"Oh . . ." I remembered as he sat down, "You might want to check your phone, too," I said as I slid into my own seat. "Might be a few messages."

"Yeah, Thanks Melinda."

Sarcastic fella, isn't he?

"So guys." I turned to Scott and Daniel. "What EXACTLY is written about me on the boys room walls?"

"Don't tell her." Said Nick, not even looking up from his phone. "I don't need the grief."

I waited, but apparently this was one secret destined to elude me. Unless I snuck into the boys room to see for myself. But was I REALLY willing to put myself through that ever again??

The answer was no.

"Ok, we really have to get going." I said, looking at Nick. "NICK—" I threw a chip at Scott (Who looked like her was bursting to tell me what was written on the wall) and, predictably, missed, "—has to go and see Stacy's mom."

Nick frowned.

"Oh," I said sweetly, "I didn't tell you about that? Well come along," I pulled a bewildered looking Nick up off the bench and forcefully linked my arm through his. "I'll fill you in when we get there."

"But I'm not finished my burrito." He complained.

"Tough luck."

"Us too." Said Arabia. "Scott has to give the Zoo back their monkey." **(A/N: While I don't actually know if Carmel has a Zoo, GO WITH IT.)**

Scott looked crestfallen. "Can't I keep—"

"NO!!!"

"You know Scott," said Daniel in a teasing voice, "Monkeys don't actually _enjoy _living in bedrooms and eating only marmalade. That's just a myth."

Scott scowled.

"C'mon Lana." Daniel said with a laugh at Daniels expression. "Your mom will never forgive me if you're late."

"Bye everyone!!" Alanna called as she let herself be led from the table.

"Is this true?" Scott hissed at Nick, who shrugged, not caring one way or another.

Of course, his distraction was understandable. Carmel mall burritos are distraction wrapped in lettuce.

"Fucking know-it-all." Muttered Scott at Daniel's retreating back. "If he's so damn smart then how come he LEFT HIS PILLS HERE?????"

Daniel was too far way to hear him.

Scott was right though. Daniel's unopened prescription bottle and my water still lay on the table.

"I'll take them." I said, stuffing pills in my jacket pocket, "Alanna's coming over tonight, I'll give them to her."

"Right. See you then" said Arabia, gathering her stuff and heading off.

"Yeah. Whatever." Muttered Scott, following her.

"Look, come on." I said to Nick, "We have to go."

This afternoon had been fun, almost a small holiday from reality. But after my visit to Stacy's mom, I couldn't shirk my culpability. And I didn't want to. Keith was either going to come to me, or I was going to go to him.

Same result either way.

Because he fucked his own chance at having this, having LIFE, doesn't mean I'm going to let him take everyone else's. Including, but not exclusive to, mine.

"Sure." Nick said. "Lets go be mediators and clean up everyone else's mess."

He was joking, but not really.

Did I ever know that feeling.

**X-X-X**

"Be Nice." Nick muttered to me as Stacy's mom—I mean Lisa—showed us to her living room.

"Back at you." I hissed. What exactly is he implying? That I can't CIVIL? That I can't be POLITE and NICE?

. . . He may be right.

I sat down on the familiar grossly extravagant plush green couch and observed my surroundings.

No change.

Same disgusting ornaments. To think, a few minutes earlier I would have had a perfect use for these ornaments.

Throwing them at Stacy.

We'd been arguing over her insane compulsion to tell the world that I could see dead people.

"Tell her!" She'd shouted at me as we walked up her driveway. "TELL HER!"

I gritted my teeth and ignored her.

"TELL HER OR I SWEAR TO FUCKING GOD I WILL SERIOUSLY HURT YOU."

. . .Raw nerve.

People are always, ALWAYS, trying to hurt me.

"NO!!!" I screamed. Nick winced at my volume. "I don't WANT to be telling your mom that I can talk to ghosts!!! Remember what happened LAST time I told someone because you wanted me to?"

". . .That was just bad luck." She mumbled.

"Melinda's right." Nick said calmly, stepping up onto the doorstep. "Stacy, I realise your desperate for any form of contact with your mother, but forcing Melinda to do something that will only hurt her . . . You can't ask that."

Wether he was saying this for my sake or simply to save his own ass, I didn't know, but either way, it was damn good of him.

"I—I know." She said in one of the saddest voices I'd ever heard. "I'm sorry Melinda."

I stared at the steps in silence, contemplating what she'd said.

I took a deep breath. "I'll do it."

"What??" Nick was incredulous as he turned to face me, "Are you crazy?"

"Yes. I want to do this. Stacy's my friend. If I can help her, I will."

He stared at me.

Stacy looked me in the eye. "Melinda . . . what?"

"Stacy, remember that time in fourth grade when I got a detention for throwing paint at Mrs Bablac?"

"Trust me, I will never forget that."

"And you took the blame because I had to go straight home after school, because it was grandma's birthday?"

"Yes . . ."

"You didn't have to do that. You did it because you were my friend and I needed help. This is just like it was then, except no paint, no angry teacher and our roles reversed."

She didn't reply. Just nodded.

Nick was still staring at me.

"Don't worry." I said to him. "I won't drag you down with me.

"That's not what I—I mean . . ." he cleared his throat. "Never mind. Are you going to knock or what?"

"No." I said sarcastically as I stepped up to the door. "I'm going to stand here and sing twinkle twinkle little star in C major until she opens the door." I rolled my eyes and knocked.

He smirked.

The door swung open almost instantly. "Hello you three!!!" Stacy mom—LISA, her name is LISA—chirped.

"Two." I corrected. She couldn't see Stacy, so I put it down to more dedication to cheerleading than academic's during the critical years.

"So it is. And this is Nick?"

No. Crocodile Dundee.

"Yes."

"Come in, come in!"

And so here I was. Sitting on a hideous couch, staring at equally hideous ornaments, while the ghost of my dead best friend paced behind me.

Forgive me, but life wasn't good.

"So, Melinda, darling, how have you been?"

"Fine. Actually Mrs – Miss – uh, _Lisa . . ._There's something we have to—"

"Oh dear!" Stacy's mom laughed brightly. "I did raise a teenage daughter, you know!! Of course, Stacy killed herself, but I remember what it means when a girl has a look like THAT on her face!"

I blinked.

Nick said nothing. Just sat there, unmoving.

"So . . ." Stacy's—LISA—continued, "What do you two know that I don't?"

I restrained myself—with difficulty—from snorting. What did I know that she doesn't?

Like, EVERYTHING.

Including that her sweater made her look like Camilla Parker Bowles.

. . . But perhaps this wasn't the time.

"Well, what I'm trying to say . . . _Lisa_, Is that I—"

"We." Nick interrupted.

"We?" I was confused. "I thought you--?"

"No."

"Are you—?"

"Sure? Yes."

"Um. OK. see, we can … er …"

Nick took over. "You see Mrs Vanderleigh—"

"Lisa." She corrected firmly.

" . . . Lisa, then. Certain people . . . and more than you'd think . . . are capable of interaction with deceased members of the human race on a semi-regular to regular basis. This antediluvian practise dates back to ancient Egypt, where hieroglyphic proof specified the existence of—"

"Wait." Stacy's mom interrupted. "I'm … confused."

I sighed. "We can talk to ghosts."

Silence.

I looked around for Stacy, probably so I could be just a little bit _I told you so _but she'd disappeared. Typical ghost. When things get uncomfortable, they just dematerialise or whatever.

Must be nice.

Nick hurriedly relapsed his explanation, no doubt trying to make up for my tactless admission. "—a gifted race, devoted entirely to the matters of the afterlife and it's inhabitants. Referred to as a _Shaman, _a word derived from a shaman's ability to shift, wether that be time, or form, or through the dimensions of mortal life—"

"So . . . " Stac—Lisa—Interrupted, 'Let me make sure I understand. You're saying . . . You see dead people? You've seen my daughter?"

"Er . . . I shifted uncomfortably. "That's my story and I'm sticking to it."

Nick shot me a _shut up you're not helping, _look, and realising he was right, I complied.

S—Lisa started to cry. "Stacy … my little girl!!! Have you found her murderer yet? Oh my poor little girl . . . "

I grew even more uncomfortable. Thankfully, Nick had more presence of mind than me, he pulled from his pocket a handkerchief—I was not so distracted that I did not notice this, and catching my eye, he mouthed, MAKES A GREAT GAG.

"Mrs Vanderleigh, we regrettably have to leave you now. Anything you need to ask, any questions you might have, here is—" he grabbed a piece of paper and a pen he seemed to have pulled from thin air and scrawled something on it. "—My father's number. Paul Slater. Don't hesitate." Then to me; "Come."

Once outside with the door shut firmly behind us I said to Nick, "Boy your dad' going to be mad you gave his number to a needy housewife."

"I know." Said Nick with a grin. "He'll be mad as hell . . . But—" he added thoughtfully, "He'll probably help her. After a while." I shrugged and started out the driveway but Nick pulled me back. "Call Stacy, would you?"

"umm, what? How do I do that?"

"Call her name. Honestly. Try it."

I thought it pointless, but complied. Imagine my surprise when Stacy materialised not three feet away from me.

Coincidence?

Not on my aunt Gertrude's life! Not that I like her that much anyway.

. . . Andy's got some ODD skeletons in _his_ family closet.

"Stacy, keep an eye on your mother." Nick instructed. "She's currently somewhat unstable."

"Currently?" Stacy scoffed. "The broad's always been like that."

"Just go in there."

"Nuh uh." She protested violently. "No freaking way. You don't know my mother. She grieves _alone_. Trust me. She'll be having a major breakdown in there, and then by dinnertime she'll be smiling and doing housework. No WAY am I going in there."

"But Stacy." I said reasonably. "She can't see you."

"Doesn't matter." She argued. "That woman KNOWS."

I shrugged, finding he argument a little loopy, but decided not to argue. When Stacy set's her mind on something it's like a bulldog and a leg of meat.

Bad analogy . . . shouldn't have called Stacy a bulldog. " . . .Ok." I said.

Stacy shot me a quick smile before shimmering into nothingness. I stared at the space she'd just vacated, thinking. Her mom was a bit of a fruitcake.

But, loosing her only daughter. Understandable. And because Stacy and her never got on, maybe it was the guilt.

I shook my head to clear it and turned to Nick. "Ok. I have to go, Alanna's coming over, remember?"

"So?"

"So YOU—" I turned him and gave him a shove in the direction of his car (borrowed off 'the friend') "—Have to leave me and go home."

"What am I?" he grumbled, "Your bitch?"

I smiled sweetly. "Pretty much."

He groaned comically. "Well then you'd better make it worth my while."

"Nuh uh," I taunted, dancing away from his wandering hands. "You can _wait_." I turned away and walked off, teasing him by exaggerating the swing of my hips. "Buh Bye Nick!"

I heard a thump as he hit the car in frustration and I laughed. A little sexual frustration never killed anyone.

It wasn't until later that night I found out how wrong I was.

**X-X-X**

Twenty minutes!! I had only twenty minutes before Alanna got here!!!

"Mom!!!!" I called, running down the hall and making it into the kitchen before the front door swung shut, "Mom can you please—shit!!!"

A note on the bench.

Gone out for dinner. 

Hope Alanna can cook otherwise you'll starve. 

XoX 

Mom 

"Oh Shit." Then the phone started ringing. "Shit!" I hopped from one foot to another, debating over wether or not to answer it, and ended up diving for the phone just in time. "Hello?"

"Melinda? Hello dear, it's Shirley here . . ."

Shirley … Shirley … Oh! Our next-door neighbour!

"Hi, Mrs Grey—"

"I'm just calling, dear, to see if you're all OK."

"Yes, of course, why wouldn't—?"

"I heard a shot, dear."

"A—A Gunshot—?"

"Yes dear. About, oh, five or ten minutes ago now."

I hung up.

"Hello?" I called through the house, trying to keep my voice steady, not to sound as panicked as I felt. Ringing the police would be futile, if it was who I thought it was.

If it was Keith.

"Hello?" I repeated, cautiously moving back down the hallway.

Something was wrong. Now that I'd slowed down, I didn't need Mrs Grey to tell me something was wrong. I could even pinpoint to knowing about the gun. I'd guess it would be a handgun. Small and black. Exactly like the one Stacy used.

The air around me seemed tight, and drawing breath seemed like a loud noise giving my presence away. I was agonizingly aware I was the only movement. No cats. Nothing.

. . . Just me.

. . . for now.

I was almost frozen with the thought of what I might find, and as I walked into the dining room, I felt like someone had emptied a bucket of freezing water over me.

This was the room.

"Keith? Keith what—?"

Then I saw them.

A man and a woman sprawled together on the floor, naked and entwined, their lips in a motionless kiss.

Both of them unmistakably dead.

They were too still, too quiet for life. Tears sprang to my eyes as my gaze was drawn to the one gunshot wound that had both mixed their blood and killed them.

I swallowed and tried not to look at the stained carpet, to ignore their naked bodies, pressed together as though they'd die from lack of contact.

_. . . They'd died from lack of contact._

I fought back my tears and took a step closer, a mistake, as I realised two last things, and let out an agonised scream, and stumbled backwards crying hysterically.

I'd gotten close enough to recognise him.

. . . And her.

**X-X-X**

**Who are they, do you think?**

**Could be anyone. **

**But the more reviews, the quicker the answer! **

**Go forth and review!!!**

**Love and kisses,**

**Mariah **

Right, **reason number one** was because after I finished writing the car crash, one of my closest friends was seriously injured in a car crash. So . . . well, I'm sure you understand how that made things difficult.

And:

Shoutout to **Mary:** I miss you; get your shiny ass back here. Throws butter dish

**009&1/2:** Thanks for all the encouragement and for making me—actually—laugh. And thanks for dedicating your oneshot to me, too. Stuff dedicated to me ROCKS!!!


	14. Don Juan Wannabe

"_**Here the Sire may serve the Dam,**_

_**Here the master takes his meat,**_

_**Here the sacrificial lamb,**_

_**Utters one despairing bleat."**_

—**_The Phantom of the Opera's "Don Juan Triumphant" _**

**_(Dunno what "Don Juan Triumphant" is? Think of Mozart's "Don Giovanni" opera.)_**

**Hello my lovelies. Thank you for all the desperate reviews begging me to update. I loved it. Enticed me right out of my little writers 'funk'.**

**OK. This is a short author note, for me anyway. Just to rain on your parade, the long one's at the bottom. If you APPLY YOURSELF, you might make it. lol.**

**Okeydokey, where we left off:**

_Close enough to recognise him._

_. . . And Her._

**And where we begin:**

Lying motionlessly tangled together on the floor was Daniel . . . with Alanna.

_Alanna . . . _

I gathered my feet under me and ran blindly towards the door, throwing myself frantically against it, but it was locked. I was trapped. I didn't need to try the other door on the adjacent wall to know that it too would be locked.

I stopped trying to open the door, and turned and slid down it instead, closing my eyes in order to avoid the sight of the two of them sprawled as one on the carpet.

It was futile. The horrible image of them was imprinted forever in my mind, never in my life would I forget.

Entwined in an uncompleted duet of love, every emotion I'd ever seen the two of them express, was magnified to unbearable levels. Their embrace that spoke only of love, His obvious contentment and joy in both her presence and body . . .

But worst of all was the look on her face. Especially her eyes . . . closed in a still expression of bliss.

Something she'd once said flashed into my anguished mind. _"And when he kisses me . . ."_

I banged my head repeatedly on the solid wood door, desperate to eradicate the picture from my mind, and her voice repeating that phrase, over and over again.

"_When he kisses me . . ." _

"_When he kisses me . . ." _

"_When he kisses me . . ."_

Her voice rising to unbearable volume, I continued to smash my head against the door, until I felt the blood on the back of my head . . . and still, I couldn't feel its pain.

My mind was entirely consumed by another pain. "Alanna . . . why," I whimpered in a broken voice, "How could you . . . Why . . .?" Desperately I shouted, "WHY????? What did she EVER do to you?"

The door contiguous to the one I was leaning on inched slowly open, and I froze, tensed for attack.

"That got you, didn't it?" a smug sounding voice floated through the door.

I got haphazardly to my feet, and moved towards the doorway, deliberately keeping my gaze locked on the darkness at the top of the stairs.

I couldn't handle looking at them. I couldn't. My own image mercilessly tortured my senses; I felt if I were to look at them I would go insane.

I made it through the door and stared searchingly up the dark stairway; my eye's denying me the knowledge of who it was, but my mind suppling it in abundance.

"You did that to hurt me?" I was shocked, disgusted and tormented beyond belief by this callous, calculated murder. "You killed Alanna and Daniel to hurt ME?"

"Alanna? Is that her name? I did wonder."

The tears started again. "Why her??? What did she EVER—?

"Well." Keith said slowly, coming down the stairs. "It seemed you needed more persuasion, babe. Your own fault. As for her, she was close to you, hmm? And the boy? You and him were into each other a while ago." he sat on the bottom step and beamed up at me as I took a disgusted step back. "But the _display_." He said happily. "My little _arrangement_. That was very good, wasn't it? Not my idea, unfortunately, but very pleasing."

"So someone told you to—"

"You did wreck it a little, though." He ignored me, continuing his narrative thoughtfully. "He was supposed to be fucking her raw when I shot them. Did you get a close look at them, Melinda, babe? He wasn't actually in her. Pompous little jerk off, I was going to give him a last little bit of fun . . . release some of his sexual frustration. Check your pocket, babe." He said to me with a leer. "I think you've got them."

I was incapable of doing anything other than starting at Keith with revulsion.

"CHECK." He snarled. "Or I'll do it. And that's not all I'll do." He made violent jerk off motions with his right hand.

I fumbled with my jacket pocket, and when my hand closed around a cylinder bottle, I was hit with sudden understanding. I pulled out the bottle took a sharp intake of breath as looked with dawning realisation at Daniels pills.

"_So, I went to the Doctor this morning and asked him to give me something the migraines. Speaking of," he glanced at his watch. "I'm supposed to take three now. Anyone got any water?"_

"_Uh, somewhere," I said distractedly, looking up from my cell phone—like watching it was going to make him text me—and saw that Daniel did, in fact have a prescription bottle in his hand, filled with bluey coloured pills._

_OK, the guys legit._

_Thought we had a druggie on our hands here._

_I rummaged through my bag, found bottled water, and chucked it to him._

"_The old man's gotta take his meds." Joked Scott._

_Everyone ignored him._

"_Hey, look who it is," Daniel said, pausing with the water bottle halfway to his mouth and abandoning his one handed attempts to beat the childproof seal on his medication bottle. "How's the friend?"_

I broke the childproof seal that accorded Daniel and Alanna the smallest amount of dignity and shook a few of the vivid blue tablets into my palm.

These blue pills . . . They weren't migraine pills.

I looked up at Keith to find him watching me with a sick kind of pleasure.

"Viagra . . ." I whispered.

"Yup. If he wasn't such a noble little wanker, determined to _respect her,_ he wouldn't have needed them." Keith said contemptuously. "He would have got in there already, like any real man, and FUCKED her ass. I would have."

"You didn't—"

"No." said Keith, with what sounded like regret. "I didn't rape her. It's not as fun when they're dead."

I made my way towards him, my mind occupied with the thought of smashing his nose through to the other side of his face, but his experience in Nick's car of me banging his head against the dashboard must have been a lingering lesson, because he got to his feet and pushed me sideways, with so much force, into the wall, that I crunched horribly against it and fell to the ground.

"Bitch." He remarked. "I'm not finished my story. I want you a miserable WRECK, when I'm finished."

Those were the words that gave me courage. That sentence, was so informative, so illuminating, it gave me the strength to defy it.

"Well." I said, trying to sound indifferent as I dragging myself into a sitting position, while my side screamed in protest. And my head wasn't too great either. But that was my own fault. "Why Alanna and Daniel? Why not someone with the morals to rival your own? Why not seek out a fellow mentally impaired rapist?"

"Because." He said, not seeming at all angered by my words. "Weren't you listening? Not only would they hurt you the most, but also they make very dramatic headlines. The girl, she was a virgin, see. And the whole plan was to have your _innocent_, sweet little girl friend murdered while fucking her boyfriend. Well," he corrected with a smirk. "Almost fucking her boyfriend."

Something I'd thought of earlier flashed into my head. _They'd died from lack of contact. _

"It really was very _fun._" Keith continued, "I can't WAIT for her mother to find out. She'll remember her daughter as nothing but a dirty _slut_, now."

I said nothing. I was trying desperately to let his words wash meaninglessly over me, to show no pain, to show nothing.

"So," he said pleasantly. "When he came with her to visit you, I just waited for them to fool around a little—it didn't take much to please little Alanna, I'm afraid. All he had to do was kiss her and she was moaning and begging him to keep kissing her. I could have done much better. I could have had her _dripping_—"

I choked back my repulsion and sat there, struggling a violent internal battle to maintain a blank exterior.

I could hear every word, but I tried to numb the meaning.

But I couldn't take much more.

"—And then the bullet and a little . . . rearranging!" he was enjoying this. "You're pretty stupid for a shifter, you know that, don't you? But I like you. Don't worry babe, you'll be alive to enjoy it when I have my turn."

I was fighting so desperately for control. What would happen if I relaxed that control, I didn't know. I'd either go completely insane and break down, or get uncontrollably violent.

What jolted me out of my hostile semi-catatonic state was the distant sound of sirens.

Mrs Grey.

Obviously my hanging up on her hadn't done much to put her middle-aged mind at rest.

I slowly got to my feet and slid the cleverly disguised Viagra back in my pocket, the pain of my body no longer remembered, as I'd willingly shut myself off, all I had to work with logic and cold facts. And I knew that I could not be found here.

I turned my back on Keith, and the bodies of Alanna and Daniel—I walked straight past them—and continued out of the house out across the front garden—if you could call it a garden. An avid gardener my mother was not—and got in the car mom had loaned to me, and took off.

I was grimly sure that I had to get wherever I was going, quickly.

Mrs Grey was well meaning, but essentially misguided. She'd landed me well and truly in it, and I was sure she wouldn't hesitate to inform the police of my presence.

Unless . . .

I had my phone in my jacket pocket, my hand brushed the Viagra as I pulled it out and searched the contacts for a number, a few months ago, I would have never thought I'd willingly use.

The deep purr of the ringing sounded in my ear, I concentrated on it's echo as I drove on, giveway's and indications a thing of habit, dangerous for sure, but the least of my worries.

"Hello?" Nick's phone was answered by a bright, happy voice.

"Chenaol?" I said. "It's Melinda. Put Nick on." Then as an afterthought. " . . . Please."

Time was not something I had in abundance. **(A/N: major Rocky Horror Picture Show flashbacks. "I ask for NOTHING master!" "And you shall receive it, in abundance!!!") **

"Melinda?" she sounded confused. "Oh, uh, sure . . ."

"Melinda?" Nick's voice came through. "Sorry, Chenaol beat me to answering. How—"

"Nick, I've been with you all afternoon." I said by way of greeting. "I came home with you after we visited Mrs Van der Leigh, my neighbour is old and possibly not in full possession of her faculties."

"Ok." he agreed. "You can explain when you get here. How far away are you?"

"Scenic drive now."

"I'll meet you at the doors." He hung up and within a few minutes I'd pulled the car to a haphazard halt just off the Slater's driveway.

Nick opened the door for me and wordlessly led me into a sitting room, never once taking his gaze off me.

"Keith pulled a double murder at home." I said, by way of explanation. I didn't go into specifics. I couldn't, just yet. "My neighbour called to tell me she'd heard a gunshot and she must've called the police as well."

He looked at me in what I'd describe as horror. "Not Jesse and Suze—"

"No." I said, but I didn't offer further information.

Chenaol then walked into the room and no doubt thought something a little odd about me, I was staring out the window, studiously ignoring Nick who was trying to get me to take a seat. I wasn't really aware of how worrying my behaviour was, and I didn't really care besides.

"Hi Melinda!" she said cheerfully. Then, "Hey, you don't look good. You OK?"

I'M fine. I thought, slightly bitter. It's Alanna and Daniel who aren't so great.

"Chenaol," I said instead, "Is Slater here?"

"Slater?" she frowned. "That's sorta confusing . . ."

"Paul." I clarified.

"Sure. Um, I'll go grab him."

She left and I had a few minutes in which I was forced to play oblivious to Nick's needling expression. The time was passing by so slowly, it seemed interminable. Eventually she came back, preceded by Slater.

"Melinda!" he said pleasantly. "Nice to—"

"Theoretically," I interrupted, not because I was trying to be rude, but simply because I didn't care what he had to say, "If Nick says I was here, Police are more likely to believe him than an elderly neighbour, right?"

"Well, in theory, I suppose . . . " he answered, vaguely.

"But—" I corrected, talking pretty much to myself now, "If _you _denied it and said I wasn't—you being a respected lawyer—el miedra."

"Who says I'm going to do that?" Slater said mildly.

I stared at him impatiently. I knew I should have gone to the Mission. The problem was Father Dominic probably wouldn't lie.

Then my phone rang. I'd been expecting it; I knew it would be the cop's—Mrs Grey having wasted no time in setting them on me. I pulled my phone out and was about to answer, when I was interrupted.

"Let me." Slater said, stepping forward and easing the phone out of my hands.

I shrugged. I was looking at possible murder charges anyway. What was I going to say? "The Ghost did it?" Might as well let Slater throw in some big words, keep him happy.

"Melinda de Silva's phone." He answered, looking decidedly odd with a bright pink phone in his hand. I assume that's why Chenaol started to giggle. "Yes," he continued, pleasantly, "And what may I ask, is this in regard to, Sergent?" He winked at me and listened quietly to (as it sounded to me) the indistinct—yet still authorative—voice coming through my phone. "I see." He said calmly. "Well as both Miss de Silva's lawyer and Alibi, I think you'd better reconsider."

"He's enjoying this." Chenaol mumbled.

" . . . Yes." Slater said after a long silence. " . . . Unfortunately for you, Miss de Silva's whereabouts can be undisputedly accounted for by an number of my house staff, my wife, my son and myself . . .if you'll let me finish Sergent . . . as she's been at my residence on Scenic drive since around four this afternoon."

I didn't miss the subtle implication of money. What I was struggling with was Slater backing me up.

" . . . I see . . ." Slater continued. "Well I think you'll find the neighbour is mistaken. Elderly? Perhaps senile . . . ?"

I sat down on the couch beside Nick and observed the scene in front of me with—if not an open mouth—then obvious astonishment.

" . . . Paul Slater . . . Yes, the lawyer . . . Yes, Sergent Peterson I think I have had the honour . . . Yes, very sorry about that—Bit of a public disgrace for you, wasn't it?"

I suddenly aware that I was watching a master at work.

"Well I think you'll find, my friend, that owing to the lack of any substantial evidence in your favour—other than the word of an elderly neighbour of doubtful mental clarity—you can't hold Miss de Silva accountable to this heinous crime. Really, anything else would just be seen as incompetence from our trusted Police force!" Then, "Enjoy your evening, Sergent." And he hung up.

"They just believed you?" I asked, incredulously. "Just like that, Mrs Grey's insane and I've been here all afternoon?"

"Of course." Slater said with a casual shrug. "Our protectors of the law have their weak spots like everybody else. Something the media always enjoy pointing out."

"Yes," I said, getting to my feet, and finding I could understand that only too well, "But why'd you do that? You could've—"

"Sorry to interrupt—" he didn't really sound all that sorry, "—but I know where you're going with this. And tell me. What would you say to anyone else who just helped you like I did? Someone who hasn't had Suze beneath them, lying her ass of about how much she liked it—"

"Getting weird . . . " Nick muttered, but he was ignored.

"—Someone who hasn't," he continued, "Had his nose broken by your Father, twice now, I think. Someone who hasn't loved your mother—"

"Someone whose not you?" I interrupted, totally killing his little exercise.

"It's history now." He said, sounding deadly sincere. "_Memories._ To be appreciated and remembered, but not _lived_."

"I'd say . . . " I said slowly. "Thank you. And then . . . I'd apologise."

He smiled. "And then our third person who is me and isn't me at the same time—would say that you are welcome."

Chenaol looked totally lost, but I understood.

"Now," he said, "I'd suggest you call your parents. I don't think anyone else is in any immediate danger, this ghost—"

"Keith." Nick supplied. "And you're right, he seems to like the dramatic, which doesn't really add up with what Melinda's told me of him, but I think he'll wait a while."

It was then I remembered with a painful swooping sensation why I was here in the first place. "How do you know?" I asked. "He could just be making us thinks that, he could be here right now, listening—"

"He's not." Slater said, with such absolute certainty, I believed him. "But call your parent's quickly. I assume the police are currently requestioning Mrs Grey—"

I wordlessly flipped my phone open and called mom's cell phone. Dad never turned his on in a restaurant. He considered it rude. Mom had no such reservations.

It rang only twice before she picked up. "What?" was her greeting, obviously she'd checked the caller ID. "Didn't you see my note? If you can't fix the microwave meals then Alanna should be able to."

I clenched my teeth. "Mom. I've not been home yet. I'm with Nick, but the police just called, something terrible has happened at home."

It was harder than I thought, to pretend I didn't know what had happened to Daniel and Alanna. Unfair, somehow.

"Oh God." She said. "Keith? Have you really been with Nick all afternoon?"

She knew. I didn't have to say it. Thank god. "No." I answered.

"Ok." She said and I heard her say in the background, "Jesse, we have to go, the police are at home—"

"Mom!" I interrupted, and then remembering the audience I held, Chenaol and Nick still in happy oblivion, I walked out into the hallway. "Please don't . . . it's . . . " my voice had shrunk to a barely intelligible whisper, because, I told myself, I didn't want to be overheard. "Daniel and Alanna. Its horrible."

I stared up at the huge artworks lining the hallway and wondered if the same artist was to be credited with all of them. They looked quite uniformed, more of a professional decorator's touch.

"OK honey." Mom soothed. "Is Paul there? Could you pass the phone to him?"

I wordlessly turned and walked back into the room and passed the phone to him.

"Suze? Yeah, I heard . . ." He turned, as I did, and left the room. The last think I heard was, "Now, I'd advise you . . . "

I was left in the room with Chenaol and Nick, who immediately walked over to me and rather impatiently demanded to know what I had done to my head. I observed with detachment that he was concerned, and with the same detachment, I lifted a hand to my head felt the half dried blood and then shrugged, not caring.

She had been so happy with him. So confident and secure. Soulmates, or whatever. Mom and Dad's easy companionship with a spark that was all their own.

"Melinda!!!" Nick nearly yelled. Obviously patience would only take you so far.

"I hit it on the wall." I muttered.

"Makes sense." Chenaol giggled. "—Sorry. But it's really hard to be sympathetic, when no one will tell me what's going on . . ." as no one rushed to fill her in, she sighed. "Melinda, you should see a doctor. Come on, I'll take you . . ."

"No." Nick interrupted. And then, with his usual perception, he said, "I don't really think that's the problem, is it Melinda? Please . . . Tell me what happened."

"I don't really want to—"

"Don't." He warned.

It was pointless. Saying: "I don't really want to talk about it" to a Slater was like saying, "Bite me" to a Cannibal.

Chenaol looked back and forth between us, me back to staring blankly out the window and Nick behind me, obviously worried by how freakish I was acting. "Right." She said. "I'm going to go see if Paul and Suze are finished . . . Then maybe someone will tell me what the hell is going on."

She left and I could tell without looking that Nick was still waiting patiently behind me, his silence an argument of persuasion in itself.

"You can't help." I said calmly, turning to face him. I didn't finish the rest of my sentence because I knew it would just provoke a series of heartfelt but meaningless: "Of course it wasn't your fault . . ."s

"I heard," he said gently, "Dad say something about Alanna . . . "

"What? That her and Daniel are dead on my living room floor? Because that'd probably be it." My words came out harsher than I'd intended and I instantly regretted them.

"Fuck . . ." he said, almost to himself. "How? I mean, sorry, but how?"

"Viagra, a sadistic ghost and," I said, my voice sounding, even to my own ears, unhealthily bland as I remembered what Keith had said, "Then just a bullet and a little . . . rearranging!"

He looked at me for a moment then reached for my hand and led me upstairs and into his room. I perched myself on his bureau—god knows why. But it wasn't like it had anything on it. Wallet, clock, and some blank paper.

His whole room as bare. I couldn't help but think that for his birthday, I had to get this boy a lava lamp.

Silver and blue, like Alanna's—I felt my eyes start to water.

Again I could see them. Limbs entangled,

He still had hold of my hands and he took me by surprise when he leaned forward and kissed me on the lips.

I turned my head away . . . and then I told him everything.

Including why Keith chose them. Including everything about how I found them. The horrible beauty, happiness and death—I had to look away from Nick's piercing blue eyes at this point. Instead I picked up the clock and started to fiddle with it—Even about the Viagra and how he would've given Daniel a little "fun" with it first. This was about when I broke the clock and hurriedly put it down. Even though he saw me break it.

The only thing I didn't tell him was about Keith's explicit wish that he could have 'had a go' with Alanna before he killed her. His experience raping dead girls. Or his promise that I wouldn't be dead when he raped me.

"_You'll be alive to enjoy it when I have my turn."_

That was something I didn't think anyone else had any business knowing.

"So . . ." I finished, going for a show of nonchalance, which I didn't, _couldn't,_ feel. Reliving it just renewed the already vivid, ever present images.

My throat was uncomfortably tight, I couldn't look Nick in the face. If I did, he'd _know_.

"Fuck." He said, again.

I agreed. Then said, trying to appear blasé, " . . . guess I'm fast running out of friends."

He ignored that. "Are you sure it was Viagra?" He asked, instead. "I mean . . ."

"Well I'VE NEVER USED VIAGRA, MYSELF," I retorted, "so, NO, I'm not ONE HUNDRED PERCENT SURE."

He nodded. "It's so . . . calculated. So unlike the Keith you've described to me."

"Well just add _delusional_ to my list of vice's then, shall we?"

He just looked at me, and I mumbled, "Sorry."

"It was brilliant." He said flatly. "And yet came from the same guy who drove a BMW into a tree. Do you--?"

"Thinking what I'm thinking B1?" I said in a deep voice. "I think I am B2." I rolled my eyes.

He just looked me in the eyes and saw straight through. "Melinda." he said, not taking his eyes off mine. "Come here."

"What? All of three steps?" I tried to keep the sarcasm up, but the look on his face told me he wasn't buying it. He reached forward and pulled me off the bureau and towards him, momentum threw me on top of him . . . But it was something else that kept me there.

"I'm sorry." He said, his voice muffled by my hair.

I wrapped my arms around his neck and clung to him. Held him like I never wanted to let go. And I didn't. Ever, want to.

**XXX**

**Thanks for reading! Just so you know . . . I'm building up to one HELL of a climax for you soon. **

**If you're confused about this chapter's title? OFFENDED by this chapter's title? (That's not so crazy. I would be, if I weren't the one responsible for it.)**

**Let me explain. Don Juan is the most famous manwhore of all time. The story of Don Juan (pronounced like 'Don one') is legendary, as he cared about no one or nothing as long as he got some sacktime with the hot girl.**

**. . . So naturally, I love it. To quote Boston Legal—"Repugnant, disgusting—" "Everything I stand for!"**

**Anyway. Keith (oh he of many delusions) thinks he is quite the Don Juan. More appropriate was what I WANTED to call the chapter: "Gregory Rasputin (man of many orgies) in his reincarnated-yet dead-form."**

**But it wouldn't fit. And I'm guessing I would be in a lot of trouble with a lot of people. **

**ANYWAY. **

**One last thing. My Beta, xtotallyatpeacex is brilliant. Don't blame her for my bad grammar, etc. I just haven't been able to use her yet. (Hee!! Kinky.)**

**So, now, AVOID MY (long and annoying) DIVA-WORTHY TANTRUMS. **

**REVIEW ME.**


	15. Sexytime!

_Aw, ya'll still giving me the silent treatment?_

_Oh come on! Don't tell me you're not into the perverted, sweat-pit-endowed (Thanks my dear__** Salad**__,) nutter Keith?_

_What? You prefer the sexier (yet-definitely-a-product-of-the-devils-hanky-panky) fella, Nick?_

_WELL. Each to her own then! … Lol!_

_Although … I suppose it really wasn't very nice of me … so I'll make it up to you in this chapter._

_See, re-reading my most recent stuff, I myself have noticed the complete lack of fluff and I've concluded that you're all going into withdrawal._

_Ah withdrawal . . . I know it well. My life has SUCKED since my main financial backers (Mum and dad) discovered the recommended __**TAB**__ intake is, like, 5 cans a day._

_Until that tragic day, I could put away 5 before breakfast!!!_

_Anyway._

_My point WAS, that after the nastiness of the last chapter I figured I owed it to those of you still reading … a little between the sheets fluff to reinstate your faith in me._

_No, I really mean __**between the sheets**_

**X-X-X**

"**Sexytime!"**

—**Very nice!**

**X-X-X**

It was no more than an hour later than I followed Nick downstairs and found myself confronted with a sight I would have never, in a million years, put money on.

Dad and Paul; together in the one room, the atmosphere actually being completely devoid of all tension and "wanna-fight-marmite?" airs.

Good on you fellas!! Took you long enough.

Stupid adults.

"I'm ready to go." I said, walking into the room, with barely more than nod as an acknowledgement.

"Melinda . . ." Dad said, walking over and placing a hand on my shoulder. "Melinda, honey . . ."

"What?" I said, instantly wary. "WHAT?"

That's when it happened. That is when, completely out of the blue, Nick (Having been not far behind me,) suddenly announced all authoritivly—which is perhaps what pissed me off most of all, as it seemed like he'd actually put some thought into it: "I think Melinda should stay here."

Just like that.

"_I think Melinda should stay here."_

Slaters eyebrows rose perceptibly and dad's hand tightened on my shoulder.

"I'm _sorry_," I said, taken aback, "but WHAT?"

Nick looked impressively around the room, making eye contact with each person—he's going to make an impressive little magistrate, this one.

Or perhaps a politician.

Or a real estate developer.

Whatever.

I just don't think he's going to go into hostage negotiation, you know?

And then he started to explain to the entire room, DELIBERATELY not looking at me, THE FINK, "this . . . _Keith_ seems to have developed a worrying obsession with Melinda, mentally AND physically—" he said this significantly, looking dad directly in the eyes and I couldn't suppress a gasp.

_How did he know??_

I hadn't told him anything about _that_ . . .

"—And I think, right now, here is the safest place for her to be."

"Oh, right." Slater said. "Ok. I was going to say, Jesus Christ, steady on there boy . . . But of course, if it's for her _safety_," he smirked, an expression I knew so well having seen it so often mirrored in his son, "then . . . I have to agree."

HEY, HEY WHOA WHOA, HEY!!!

Mum looked at Slater all weirdly and Nick, intercepting this, said, "Suze, Jesse, please. This will leave you free to deal with Keith without worrying if Melinda's safe. And you've seen what Keith did to. . . "he broke off to shoot a glance at me, I met his gaze with hostility, pretending I didn't know the reason he'd stopped. " . . . Alanna, and Daniel, and Stacy and even YOU Suze. . . so far he hasn't gone for Melinda directly . . . please, I don't want her to be in danger of ending up . . ." he stopped and shook his head. "just . . . _Please_."

Well . . . That was one hell of home run he just hit.

Seriously, he KNOWS how to play people, definitely.

"She was going to go and stay at the Mission." Dad said, with the no nonsense expression on his face, that I knew so well. I made a small squawk of indignation at his words, which he ignored, except for a squeezing my shoulder. "What makes you think that she'd be safer here?"

"Get real." Nick rolled his eyes. "This place is, like, a yugi-oh club tree house. Freak central."

I would have laughed . . . if the other half of the simile hadn't been about HIDING ME AWAY FROM A CRAZY GHOST.

Other than that . . . What did Nick know about yugi-oh clubs??

. . . OH!!!!!!

Oh ho ho!!!!

I _will_ remember this . . .

"Believe me." Nick said, bitterness slightly apparent in his tone. "She'll never be alone." He looked over and addressed me for the first time in all of this. "Sorry."

Ok . . . The mission is starting to look awful good . . .

But then I got some bad mental images of Sister Ernestine in a dressing-gown which made me shudder violently and I was back at my original stance.

To be honest? I'd rather live in a freezer than see Sister Ernestine . . . normal.

'I'm not sure . . ." Mum said, hesitancy apparent in her voice. "Can you," she spoke now directly to Slater, "promise me that she'll be safe here?"

"Suzie!" (mum winced) Slater was pretending to look affronted, and from where he sat on the black plush couch with Chenaol, her models long legs slung casually over his . . . he didn't manage it.

At all.

"Suzie, come now darling, what do you think?'

"I'm on the fence." She said, by way of answer.

"Jesus." Slater grinned. "I wish."

. . . I don't get it. Dad did, if the sudden massacre of my shoulder beneath his hand was anything to go by.

Either that was too kinky for my youthful understanding . . .

EW.

OR it was another of their many references to their shared past.

God I hope it's that one. PLEASE GOD, I don't ask for much . . .

"Whatever." I threw in, possibly not very helpfully. "Mum, you know this is insane."

"Still." Nick spoke, ignoring what I'd just said. "I think—"

"Um." Chenaol spoke for the first time, (I think dad's GAME FACE had freaked her out,) and it sounded to me like she was reprimanding someone. WHO quickly became apparent, "Excuse me. Nick." He turned to her with a patiently condescending look on his face. "Shut up and listen to what your girlfriend has to say, hm?"

He glared.

"Oh," I tried, "We're not exactly – I'm not – that's such a . . . bad word . . ."

"I am listening to my _girlfriend_—"

I shut up.

"—I just believe that in this instance what she has to say is inconsequential."

WOT BITCH????

"EXCUSE me?" I said, getting my Gangsta on.

This pimp is fucking REPRESSING me!

Nick then caught sight of my face. "Oh, Melinda," he shook his head at me, "don't pretend you care. Look, I know you. All you want is to get rid of Keith and you don't care if you get hurt. _We_, us in this room, care if you get hurt and _this_ is why you're staying."

. . . Well that does pretty much sum it up . . .

"Never the less." Slater was still grinning, obviously he was finding this entire experience extremely entertaining. Fucking BULLY FOR HIM. "Melinda, what do you want?"

Ahhh . . . He's boxing me in . . . he wants to make me say it . . .

Well. He did ask. And dad is always preaching about the value of honesty.

"I want to go home. I'm _going_ home." I said clearly, speaking like Nick had, making eye contact with every single person in the room in an attempt to make them understand what I was saying. I probably was not as effective as him, but fuck me for trying. "When I get home, I'm going to google exorcisms. Then I'm going to preform one."

. . . and hope it works.

That was the unspoken—but much acknowledged—finish to my sentence.

"No." Said dad firmly.

"WHAT??? YOU CAN'T STILL BELIEVE THAT KEITH DOESN'T DESERVE TO BE EXORCISED—"

"No." repeated dad, calmly. "I no longer believe that . . . but I do still believe that _you_ should not be the one attempting to administer such just retribution. It's a father's prerogative to do whatever he can to make sure his child is safe. You're my daughter, Melinda, and I love you."

"Yes daddy," I smiled sweetly, "I believe I have heard something like that before. But—"

"Melinda, it's just for a little while." He spoke persuasively, attempting to show me the logic in this great conspiracy. "Just enough time for us to sort this out. Two days, at the most." Then he added softly, "You don't really want to go back to the house right now, do you? And see . . .?"

He had me.

And he KNEW it.

"I said I'd STAY." I snapped perhaps a little too viciously.

"No, you didn't, actually," dad said mildly, "but you will?"

"I guess." I muttered ungraciously.

"Wow!!" said Slater, clapping. "You're a number one dad!" I rolled my eyes and Chenaol elbowed him. "Sorry . . ." he apologised, then, recovering from his initial mirth, he stood up and said; "I have a proposal to put to you, Suze, Jesse, about the exorcism of our friend Keith. Well, it's not an exorcism as such . . . And I don't know for sure if it will work. Pop's was never exactly forthcoming with the details . . ."

"Probably because you TRIED TO KILL HIM." Mum said. "That would be quite difficult to forgive, don't you think?"

Dad looked appalled.

"Bygones." Was Slaters defence. "We were kids, Suzie." Then he said seriously. "Suze, Jesse. I don't want Melinda hurt any more than you do. Believe me, she will be safe here."

It was impossible to doubt his sincerity, it rang true in every word.

Not that I was happy about it.

"What am I?" I said peevishly. "A vase?" I was ignored. But I didn't mind all that much. This new little conspiracy of theirs just guaranteed mum and dad's peace of mind, not my custody.

Keith was going to get taken out, all right. But by me.

And it was going to be in the most painful, traumatising way possible. I owed him _that_ much.

And so it was agreed. I would stay at the Slaters until the 'grownups' worked out their little plan. Or, at least, that was the impression I would give.

Mum and dad left me then, with the usual; "Behave."

Then Chenaol got up and said, "Come on Melinda. I'm SO not old enough to be a grandma, so I'll show you to your room."

I heaved a sigh and followed her out of the room, but I still heard Nick's indignant, "You're not even related to me!"

**X-X-X**

Something on my jaw … incessant, demanding.

I struggled through the peaceful emptiness that was sleep and attempted to identify it.

Warm … Nice …

Person … Mouth …

I flew into PANIC mode and twisted in a tangle of sheets to try and see who was lying on me, kissing my neck and face.

I was lying on my stomach and all I could see was pitch black, except for the window that took up the whole wall to my right.

All I could think was:

"… _You wont be dead when I have my turn …"_

My heart jolted into a frantic pounding rhythm as I tried to push myself up onto my elbows, but I was held down by someone's weight.

Suddenly my mind cleared and I was able to discern from the feel of the torso pinning me down, who it was.

Thank God.

My heart slowly settled to a more normal rate. This was the only guy I've ever wanted on top of me …

All the tension flew out of my body and I relaxed and tilted my head back, baring to him more skin, which accidentally told him two things: one, I was indeed awake (Not just suffering from night terrors) and Two: . . . I was really enjoying this.

"Hello." Came Nick's muffled voice somewhere just shy of the hollow of my neck.

" . . . Hi . . ." I said slowly. Nick smiled into my neck (I felt it, I FELT it,) and then moved to kiss my mouth, and went about this with such a single-minded intensity that I was left reeling.

SOMEONE'S JUST LUCKY I CLEAN MY TEETH AT BEDTIME, OK??

I could still taste the toothpaste. Else what? I mean, Eww.

I kissed him back, of course I did. It wasn't something I had to pretend I didn't like, anymore. He playfully sucked on my bottom lip and I couldn't remember ever being so happy.

But still, I had to pull back. "Do you mind telling me what you're doing here?"

"What?" Nick Slater said, all innocently. "I'm not allowed to wake my _girlfriend _like this?"

_Girlfriend? _

_GIRLFRIEND?!?_

Steady on there, cowboy! And yet my stomach squeezed and I couldn't help the smile that spread across my face. He'd allowed this word to describe my relation to him once before . . . but this time he said it, straight up. I tired to hide my reaction to that one, everyday word but, seeing as my face was right next to his, he felt me smile. And probably knew why.

"You know you like it." I had to admit that this was true as I twisted my spine in order to continue to suck face with him, (and I will admit, our positions were not the best, considering he is much heavier than me and STILL lying over my back, crushing me into the mattress).

I just enjoyed my time with him as we continued to kiss, not viciously like our entire paintball experience (you fucking rapist, Nick,) but more like the first time we kissed.

. . . When he was trying to get me just absolutely mind numbingly hot for him . . . trying, and succeeding. Much like now. Only _now_ I didn't have to pretend my stomach wasn't clenched, that I didn't feel like I was on fire everywhere his body was in contact with mine . . .

Nick took his mouth away from mine as he slipped his hand down under the sheets and I couldn't help but muffle a gasp into my pillow as I felt his warm hands abruptly invite themselves up under my Singlet and settle, grasping my hips.

Umm . . .

This is . . .

. . . Um . . .

Then he started to slowly slide his hands upwards, up, up to my waist, up—

It was then that I may have . . . freaked out a little . . . I flipped over onto my back and stared up at Nick's face, blurred by darkness, but still obviously hot, whereas I probably looked for all the world like just another wide eyed virgin.

Oh wait.

I am.

Ha! This is so _funny_ . . .

I don't think.

As I was now on my front, Nick's hands were now pressing into my back, and I was getting SO turned on by all this—just as I was thinking this, Nick started to run his blunt nails up and down my spine, and I shivered.

"Enjoying yourself Melinda?"

"Shut up." I choked out. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to concentrate on coming up with a better sentence but his next move in this little game just made my eyes fly right back open.

He'd removed a hand from tickling my spine and replaced it . . . back under my Singlet on my upper stomach . . . then as his hand resumed its journey upwards I noticed Nick's eye's firmly locked on my own, gauging the reactions I was so easily provoked into supplying.

I swallowed nervously. The feel of him watching me, and his warm hands sliding over my damp skin . . . I couldn't think clearly.

Well, no, that's a lie.

I _could_ think clearly.

But every thought I was coming up with would have made grandma disown me.

Then, as his hand just cupped the underside of my breast and gently squeezed—

All I could do was what any girl (and some guys,) in my position would have done.

I pushed myself up on my knee's (bringing Nick up with me) and resumed kissing the hot guy.

His hands settled back on my waist as we continued kissing . . . kissing, biting, sucking, licking . . .

But they didn't stay there.

Is this a teenage boy thing, or an every man thing?

Never happy unless their hands are full.

NICK'S hand, wandered down my back, then teasingly pinched my ass—I sort of squeaked into his mouth and couldn't restrain myself from throwing my arms around his neck and arching my back, pressing my front against his warm (and _very_ naked) chest.

THIS was something Nick was only too happy to take advantage of, he pulled me even tighter into him, I felt his arm around me, pressing into the bare skin of my back as he held me tightly against him. My Singlet had, by now, been pushed—_by him_—right up to underneath my boobs . . . where my bra would start . . . if I were wearing one.

This was all, I knew, very, VERY bad . . .

And yet so, SO good . . .

Now, if I'da been thinking (CLEARLY. Thinking CLEARLY. Because I think we've established that I WAS thinking . . . just not about anything that wouldn't land me in confession.) EVERYTHING I'd done tonight . . . every reaction . . . Well. I hadn't really been sending out much of a "No means NO!" message.

In fact, it was probably something more recognisable to blue movie fans everywhere . . .

The "_just throw me down and ride me, right here, right now _. . ." sorta thing—

Oh, never MIND.

It wasn't what I was TRYING to DO, OK??

Oh, maybe it was! Maybe my subconscious—

You know what? SHUT THE FUCK UP!!! I can't HELP it if everything I do is SEXY!!

Yeah … that is SO it …

Whatever. I can't be held accountable for ANYTHING I say, do, or _think_ right now, ok? OK??

OK.

I pulled my mouth away from his to look at him for a second . . . my eyes had adjusted to the dark by now, and I took in, with perfect clarity, his strong jaw, his content smirk at getting me to respond like that and his ice cold eyes looking, right now, unbearably warm . . .

THEN he removed my top.

I let out a little scream and threw myself at him so he couldn't see anything . . . But, in retrospect, this ALSO not so clever, as he has no shirt, I had no shirt . . .

He could feel them. He could DEFINITELY felt them . . .

WHAT A SITUATION. Seriously. How DO I do it? One minute I had a top . . . next minute I didn't . . . Fucking MANWHORE. DAMN good at this—

"Shh." Nick demanded, pushing me back down onto the bed, covering my mouth with a hand, more, I suspected because he enjoyed it, rather than a fear of anyone hearing. I pulled the sheets up to cover myself, all the while cursing Nick and telling myself I wasn't loving this. This room was isolated down the opposite end of the Slater property, I could scream and it would be doubtful they'd hear me.

Which I think that was exactly what Nick had in mind.

He roughly grabbed my leg just above my knee in a tight grasp, and ran his hand tightly upward, I gasped at the tightness, at the feeling of his warm hand sliding up my comparatively cold flesh, and I moaned, the sound muffled into his other hand.

Oh God, oh shit, oh shitty-McShit-shit! Not good! Well, no, ok, very GOOD, but BAD—

Shall I EXPLAIN?

Half naked guy—Just to feed any curiosity, he wore just these stripy pyjama shorts/boxer/underwear things. Not what I would have expected, and yet EXACTLY what I would have expected all at the same time.

The exciting part was the warm, solid torso that I could distinctly feel through the sheet I had tugged up to cover me . . .

But the sheet was gradually slipping off me. I believe Nick was responsible for this.

And you know what?

I was oblivious.

No, wait, that's not true. I was fully conscious of this . . . I just didn't care.

Nick smirked above me; he was enjoying this in more ways than the obvious.

I think he was particularly loving my reactions.

As for me?

I was having trouble identifying me thoughts and emotions . . . usually I was very good at this. Apparently having a hot guy on top of me just blows this little attribute to shit.

Nick was still covering my mouth, the fricking power tripped, perverted, egotistical—

Then as his hand slid under the hem of my pink flannel shorts, I lost my train of thought, as he started to gently massage the sensitive skin of my topmost inner thigh.

Something about . . . something . . .?

. . . Down, up, down, up HIGHER than before . . . his bare torso rubbing (inadvertently, I'm SO SURE) against my own naked chest . . .

My entire body was on fire, my stomach was feeling . . . weird. Tight, sort of, but it was very centralized . . .

And I'm not stupid.

I knew EXACTLY—

Oh, GOD. . .

"Oh my gosh." I managed, my breathing coming in gasps and voice muffled beneath my D.I.Y gag. Thankfully he slid his hand off my mouth and rested it on top of my heaving chest. "You didn't even last a WEEK, NO self control—"

"And did you hear me say . . ." his voice was rumbly and sexier than ever as his smile grew and he gently pinched the skin at the top of my thigh (my eye's _bugged_,) " . . . that I wanted sex?"

Oh, Father Dom does NOT know what he's missing . . .

. . . Not with Nick! NO!! NOT WITH NICK!!! I just meant the whole chastity thing in general!!!

Oh, this thinking thing is doing my head in.

Doing . . . extremely relevant word.

GOSH, I am LOOSING my MIND.

"Oh yeah?" my voice sounded panicked, I KNEW he could hear that. But his hand was between my legs for keerist's sake! BETWEEN my LEGS. "Well THIS would indicate otherwise!"

"Just enjoy it." he leant forward so his face was just inches from mine and looked BANG—oh, BAD word—into my eyes as he spoke. I wiggled, (this had the opposite calming me down, as the friction just worked me up even more,) trying to look anywhere but his blue eyes, ". . . I am."

Ok, Here's another thought. (God, I'm getting desperate, trying to distract myself with ANYTHING else,) What kind of teenage boy likes so much taunting his girlfriend—GREAT word—with her sexual inexperience that he actually has enough self control to do exactly that, and JUST that?

Freak. Shouldn't he be somewhere with a dirty magazine, like every other teenage boy?

GOD. UNFAIR.

So back to my earlier sequence of thought: Perverted, egotistical—

This was when he slid his hand (the one _playing _between my LEGS) around, so his fingers were curved around the inside of my thigh but his palm was pressing up into my butt . . .

I sucked in a lungful of air. Why not . . .

Why not . . . NOW? "Well," I said slowly, "then why don't you just—?"

"Because." He cut me off. How could he do this? How could he be so calm when HIS FINGERS WERE ONCE MORE—OH MY GOD. OHMYFUCKINGGOD!! "I don't want you to hate me."

"HISTORY LESSON," I snapped, I was loosing it, so, SO bad. I wanted . . .

I wanted . . .

"I've hated you before." I reminded, "You didn't really mind!"

"Girls." Nick said with a verbal eye roll as he proceeded to dip his head and kiss the spot under my ear. His: "Always with the talking. Can't just shut up and enjoy it." Was muffled into my neck.

I was quiet for a moment. Then, as Nick began to clutch me to him and move his mouth further and further down my neck, I was shoved right off the cliff of sanity and my mind was made up.

"Good point." I muttered. Calling to me whatever courage I had, I lifted his head up from my chest and started kissing him.

Because you know what?

WHO CARES?

Who EVEN cares?

I felt him smile, as I got more and more enthusiastic. My hands were running over his shoulder, chest, around to his back . . . His mouth was drifting further ad further south of my collarbone . . . I slid my hands over down his back until I came into contact with the rough material of the waistband of his shorts. I hesitated for a split second, undecided.

Then I made up my mind. I began to slowly roll the elastic down, and that was when Nick took back his ever busy hands and with one last little peck, rolled himself off me, settled his head on a pillow and CLOSED HIS EYES, looking for anything like a man about to drift off to sleep.

"WHAT!!????" I exclaimed, jerking upright, (I scrambled for the sheet and DRAGGED THAT UP WITH ME, I mean, I was hardly feeling very accommodating right _now_, was I?) feeling more than slightly frustrated and confused.

"Shh, Melinda." he gave a ghost of a smile, his eyes still closed. "You'll wake the entire house."

My breathing was still uneven and my words came between gasps. "You—You just come in here and—and then you—and then you were—and then you just—!"

He opened an eye. "Problems, Melinda?"

"YOU'RE DAMN RIGHT I'VE GOT PROBLEMS—"

""A little sexual frustration never hurt anyone," you know." He quoted smugly.

"Bastard." I whispered.

"Love you too, darling."

"Hey hey, no casual use of—"

"Again. Shut up Melinda."

I flipped over on my side, giving him a lovely view of my back and proceeded to sulk, trying futilely to calm my over excited body.

I continued like this, unable to _sleep_, for a good ten/fifteen minutes before I heard him start to laugh.

"Aw, I'm sorry kitten . . ."

I would have liked to remind him, yet again, about the negative repercussions of calling me kitten, but that is not how the silent treatment works, unfortunately.

"Oh, come on . . ." he coaxed, his arm winding around my waist and tugging me back against him.

I ripped myself out of his grasp, tearing all the sheets off him to use as a makeshift top, (had NO idea where my Singlet was) and climbed out of the bed. The idea was to DITCH him completely and go and sleep in another room—Fuck knows where. My planning wasn't that advanced. Maybe his room? God knows HE WASN'T USING IT!

But I never got that far, owing to the fact that a certain BEDROOM IMPOSTOR _grabbed _the back of my shorts and yanked me backwards so I fell back onto the bed.

"You officially SMELL." I said, as haughtily as I was able, (taking into account the fact that I was looking upside down into his face) and clinging onto my sheets like they were my last lifeline.

Which, you know. Wasn't too far off.

"Don't even try it. You loved it."

Very true. I think my TOPLESSNESS and the vivid memories I have of his HANDS UP MY SHORTS were testimony to this.

I made an estimation of a _harrumph_ noise and got back into bed. Even if HE was nocturnal, I, like most teen-age girls, was semi-narcoleptic, especially in the morning.

I need my sleep, or I look like some sort of retarded vampire with shag hair.

Ah, shag.

Ironic.

At least I found my top. I spotted it under Nick and pulled it out from under him, snottily shoving a pillow in his face so I could put it back on.

That being done I regained some composure. Nick grabbed the corner of the sheets and flicked them up so he could climb in beside me. "Do you mind?"

"Your hand was just up my shorts." I said flatly. "I don't think this is going to bother me."

"You sure?" he slid in beside me and pulled me tight up against him.

I squeaked out a "yes." As his body heat AGAIN, shocked me. FUCKING WARM PEOPLE. They scare me. Getting over it, I curled up against him and closed my eyes.

This, it wasn't too hard to admit I liked. Spooning. Love it.

And that was how I—and I assume him also—fell asleep.

**X-X-X**

I was roused unpleasantly in the morning with bright light, shinning straight onto my face. I lifted my face off Nick's chest to see Chenaol.

In the room. Opening the curtains.

. . . I am so dead.

Remember that thing I said last night (well, early this morning, really,) about the convenient distance away from the hubbub of the house promising privacy/discretion?

INCORRECT. Didn't work so well if we were FOUND.

RE-fresh: I was SO dead.

"Umm." I said with a wince, shutting my eyes and detangling myself from Nick. "If you give me a couple of minutes, I'll be able to come up with a decent explanation."

Oh god, dad was going to kill me. I could see it now: "_Anything you'd like to say for yourself?" " … Nick tells me I'm incapable of sharing a duvet?" _

God NO!!!!!

SURPRISING THE CRAP outta me, Chenaol shrugged. "I didn't see anything. "

Then she left.

I was floored.

HONESTLY.

Think of a floor. Think of me. Think of me, ON the floor.

If that were MY mother, or god FORBID, my father—All right, Chenaol's a step, but still—I think it's safe to assume I would be trying to explain myself out of quarantine right now.

I rolled over to see what Nick thought of all this . . .

AND HE WAS STILL ASLEEP.

No jest.

FINK!!!! FINKY—McFINK—FINK!!!

I jabbed the warm tanned shoulder sticking out of the startlingly white sheet—Well, stabbed, really—and said, "Excuse me. Wakeup. Did you know your step-mother is totally PRO Oktoberfest??????"

No signs of a response.

"I mean," I continued, punctuating my sentences with additional jabs, "What is up with THAT?" In fact, what is up with your whole freaking family? I think I've brought this up before. Back to what I was saying . . .What was I saying? Oh. Yeah. Chenaol JUST came in here—" It was about here that he woke up, "—Totally saw you in here, did NOT wait for me to explain . . . Dunno what I would have said, actually. Probably something about your room being dull and lava lamp-less . . . Back to what I was saying. What was I saying? Oh. Yeah. Summary: Chenaol fully thinks you just NAILED her husband's ex-girlfriend's daughter."

He screwed up his face and rubbed a hand over his eyes.

If he said, 'Did I? Oh um . . . you were great, babe.' I was going to hit him. I swear was going to hit him and run.

How could I fall for this?????

God, I am so STUPID sometimes!!! Why couldn't I remember that Nick was just a stupid MANWHORE.

A Manwhore who exploits his MANWHORISTIC—New Word, tough SHIT—Powers over STUPID virgins (That's me. The Stupid Virgin.) Who are STUPID enough to think that they might actually be good enough—

Nick interrupted my depressing/horrifying/embarrassing musings with a groaned: "Neurotic." He pulled himself into a sitting position and dragged his hand over his eyes again. "My girlfriend is NEUROTIC."

I silently heaved a giant sigh of relief. He's right. I AM neurotic. A PARANOID neurotic.

But, back to Chenaol. "Nick." I said. "Please focus."

"What?"

"Chenaol just totally disregarded us in here. Together . . .In here . . TOGETHER."

"So? Calm down, the responsible parent act was all for your Dad's sake."

Huh!

Had me fooled. Bloody Models. I never know if they're models or actresses. Well, no, actually, That's a lie. For most of them, I know when I see them 'act'. Cindy Crawford, This is YOU. Honey, you're gorgeous, but NO. Just . . . _NO_.

"Right." I said, snuggling back down into the bed. "That's it then. I'm going back to sleep."

"But, it's like, Eight!!!"

"Your point?" I said with closed eyes. This was MY holiday, and I was going to fucking ENJOY it, thanks!!

"Nothing. Nevermind." I could hear the smile in his voice. "Go back to sleep."

I felt the bed shift and his weight suddenly leave it; I flung an arm out to stop him and said, "Where do you think your going?"

"My clothes don't live here Melinda." Was the reply I got, and in a very humouring tone, fit for someone only half awake, such as myself. "And your orange cardigan just doesn't really do it for me."

THANK GOD.

"No, What I meant was, come back. It's cold." I got up on my knees and grabbed the material of his shorts to tug him back towards the bed. This put a very smug expression on his face that I was coming to realise was one of the things I lo—

LIKED—best about him.

LIKED.

LIKED.

At any rate. I got my way. He came back and I practically threw myself onto him—for warmth, you understand.

For _WARMTH._

I felt his body contract as he laughed at me, and then go back to sleep I did!!!!!

**X-X-X**

Later that afternoon was when I hit 'em with the demands.

"I want to go and see Mrs Grey."

"WHAT? Are you crazy—WHAT?"

I climbed down off Nick's bureau—again. The minute I got in to his room, I succumbed to a new odd habit, and immediately sat myself on the bureau. Much to his disgust, I knew where he'd much prefer me to sit. Or lie.

"Please?" I wheedled, trying to unhook my caught skirt from the bureau drawer.

He hated it me calling it a bureau too. If I recall correctly: "DRAWERS damn it!!! DRAWERS[[Odd exhaling noise . . . _Chicks_."

"No way." He came to help me unhook my skirt. "I plead insanity."

I snorted. "Trust me. That was awarded around the time you started seeing ghosts. "

Pause.

"True, OK." He got the skirt free and dropped his hands to his sides.

This was when I guessed just how frustrated he was at my insistence about visiting Mrs Grey. Any other time he would have pinched my ass, or done something else equally reflective of the amount of time he spent with other testosterone driven males such as himself.

"But—" he continued, absently scratching his jaw. "Just explain for me why you want to visit the neighbour you _publicly claimed_ was of unreliable mental lucidity?"

I blinked.

Whoa. Who was I talking to here, Senior or Junior?

"Umm … I dunno." True to form, my rejoinder was of indisputable logic.

Nick was cynical. "You just have these sudden masochistic urges?"

"Uh … Yes." I gave a little don't-shoot-the-messenger-even-though-I-am-not-the-messenger shrug.

This was proving to be WAY more hassle than I had foreseen. I would have liked to go by myself, but my on-loan car was at home and I knew I had just about as good a chance of borrowing one of the Slaters car's as I—well, anyone really—had of finding a romance novel with a good plot … or any plot at all, actually.

Anyway. Upshot: I needed a chauffeur. A role that tradition decree's must fall upon the boyfriend.

AS for WHY I just HAD to go and see Mrs Grey? As Nick pointed out, it was a possibly masochistic decision.

Well, Casper's-not-so-friendly-alter-ego (Answers to Stacy,) had dropped by and 'casually' suggested it. And, well, she's a ghost. She KNOWS things.

I was fully up for it. A little confrontational road trip, what's not to like?

Nick however, wasn't so keen …

"The Mercedes." He nevertheless assented. "Ten minutes."

"Tha-anks!!!" I trilled and gave him a quick peck before rushing off to make the most of my ten minutes.

It wasn't often I was able to coercer Nick!

To be completely honest … It was alarming little things like this that made me worry about how Nick really felt about me . . .

I was actually a quarter thrilled and three quarters terrified to find out that I was Nick Slater's weak spot.

It was DEFINITELY discerning to know that I was the hairdryer to Nick's Frosty Boy ice cream.

Not that I'd hesitate to press my newfound advantage. That would just completely go against my every principle!

I met him, 10 minutes later, at the Mercedes-Benz as specified and I knew my chances of getting to drive—soft spot or no soft spot!—were like … Well. Put it this way:

I'd be planning on that when McDonalds start selling Crème Brulee.

'Why you even want to …" Nick was struggling for words as he slid into the car and keyed the ignition. " … I don't … What is WRONG with you?"

"You mean aside from the obvious?" I fastened my seatbelt. "How many people see ghosts, Nick? Huh? That can screw a person up, you know."

"Oh," he said significantly. " I know."

"Shut up." I was smiling though. Nick just shook his head again as he pulled the car out of the driveway and got us on the road.

My smile fell off my face as I eyed him (not at all discreetly, either.) as he drove. All misgivings I'd ever had all flew to the surface as my high spirits ebbed away. He was just so . . . So . . . HIM.

The light that was reflected off the Carmel sea shone brightly in his face, I could see, (Thank god his sunglasses hid his eye's . . . His eye's always stripped me—figuratively or otherwise—and it was nearly impossible to lie to oneself when faced with his stare.) his tanned, contoured face and the confidence that was etched there. Add to the picture the clothes that simply screamed wealth and the Mercedes' . . . Definitely a bloke for the world's most eligible bachelor top three.

I mentioned as much to him.

"Sweetheart" his voice was patronising, "I'm attached, remember? To _you_."

I disregarded this. By the time he had sufficient income to make THE LIST, (Or his dad croaked and he inherited—Fucking heirs. Have it SO easy— BY THE WAY. Paris is going to JAIL, Paris is going to JAIL, nah nah nah nah nah nah!!!) We wouldn't be together. Obviously.

. . . Obviously.

"Whatever." I shrugged off what he had said and tried to turn myself back to the safer mental topic of THINGSTHATAREWRONGWITHME, but just like a fat kid with a swing, I kept playing with it, just to see if it would break. "Hey," I said, "Nick, how would you feel about being a Mr Romance contestant?'

"What, and get laid by all the hot groupie's? Yes please."

I gave a small giggle. Perhaps now would not be the best time to tell him that the only Mr Romance fans that would screw him would be the other contestants.

"What about the Bachelor," I needled, immune to the beautiful blue ocean sliding past the car window.

"Don't think I don't know what you're doing." Nick said cryptically.

And JUST LIKE the fat kid and the swing, I kept going, in the hope that deliberately breaking it would somehow lessen the pain. "You know those women on _The Bachelor_ are pretty hot, you'd definitely have fun—"

Silly me . . . a skinned knee will still bleed.

"Melinda." Nick intercepted, taking a hand off the wheel to place it carefully over my own, which was lying on my knee. "Can you hear how silly you sound—?"

He's asked me this once before, I recalled, then I thought he was nuts. Now … I wasn't so sure.

"—I'm not," he continued, "Going to ditch you."

"Hey now," I said quickly, "Remember how pissy you were that I wanted to see Mrs Grey? Yeah, go back to that."

"Yes, well, I am still pissed about that." He admitted, all grudgingly.

I shut up and decided to see if staring blankly out the window would be more fruitful.

Maybe he was right; maybe I was subconsciously trying to sabotage—

I don't know.

All I'd wanted was a few days, a few days where I didn't have to think about the real world, when I could ignore it for a little while . . . before I went off and attempted to exorcise a mad shifter's ghost.

Seemed fair, you know??

Now, it seems my holiday is as good as over. It was time to go and consort with dead people. And their associates. Which meant I could pretty much kiss goodbye—

I didn't WANT anyone when I started tis. It had to be JUST me. In any fight, it had to be just ME, that way I had no responsibility and no guilt.

Keith was trying to hit everyone around me. So I had to get rid of everyone around me first.

Made perfect sense in MY head, it's not my fault that other people were too emotionally involved to see the brilliance.

But first—my head was suddenly clear as Nick pulled the car into the driveway adjacent to mine—I had to sort Mrs Grey out.

I climbed out of the vehicle and noticed that you could see my balcony from here. The one that Keith threw mum off.

This strengthened my resolve.

"Come on." Nick walked around to me and took my hand; I noticed indifferently, "Whatever it is you think you're doing, lets do it."

I quickly got out of sight from my house and we walked up to Mrs Grey's doorway and waited as I rang the bell and then waited some more.

Maybe old people should put their rocking chairs next to the door, eh? Save some time.

Abruptly, the door flew open and I had hastily stepped back.

Jesus Christ, new walking stick?

"Melinda, dear, come in!"

Whoa. What?

" … Sure, Ok, I'll go with it." Nick muttered, confusion apparent in voice. He must have been as taken aback as I was.

"Oh Melinda, dear, I was just so worried." She showed us into her living room and I smiled slightly, as I remembered she had always called me "Melinda, dear," like it was my name.

. . . Perhaps it was a little cruel of me to be wandering around calling her insane, but self preservations has, and will always be, the strongest of all human instincts.

"Tea?" she asked. "Milo? Ovaltine?"

ICK! _Ovalitine_. I don't know which I hate more, Ovaltine or Crochet.

"And—" She was still smiling serenely, like it wasn't IMPORTANT I'd told the police she was insane. "What for your young man, Melinda, dear?"

Was I supposed to answer that or was Nick?

However, Nick solved this dilemma for me by saying, "Milo, please." He winked at me. "I just LOVE a good Milo."

Oh, WhatEVER. Strictly a hard spirits child was Nick. A small part of me found it hilarious that Carmel's notorious party boy was having Milo with a senior citizen.

"Could I help you?" Nick offered.

"No, no dears, it's all under control!"

Pfft. I could have told him that Mrs Grey would be one of those women who took offence if you offered to help in the kitchen. Like Stacy's mum. DEFINITELY like Stacy's mum. They seem to think you are implying they aren't competent to do it themselves if you offer help.

"But, you can tell me what your name is, young man. You never did say."

"Nick." He said, getting up and taking the tray with the three cups off her. "Nick Slater."

"Oh!" She exclaimed, not sounding at all distressed like most (normal) elderly people are when they discover they're talking to a Slater. "Then you must be the son of that lovely young lawyer who got my 'premature testimony disregarded on the grounds of dubious mental capacity'."

I blinked.

"His words. Not mine."

"Yeah, that sounds like the one." I accepted my Milo "—Thanks— except I'm the one calling you a fruit loop."

. . . Perhaps I could have worded that a bit differently . . .

"Oh, don't worry dear.' Mrs Grey leaned over and patted my hand with her own veiny, knotted one. "I know why. Your poor friend . . . I am so sorry."

"Your DAMN father!" I exploded, turning to Nick, "How COULD he—"

"Actually," Mrs Grey interrupted gently, "_Your_ father told me this."

"Your damn father!" Nick ribbed gently.

OK, I suppose that was deserved. I sulked and took a sip of Milo.

"Well, to be perfectly frank, Melinda, dear, I can't believe you killed Alanna. Why, you would have no more killed her than shot Bambi!"

How--? What--? Why--? WAIT.

"That's true," I mumbled, nodding. "I DO LIKE Bambi."

"And I'm so, so sorry Melinda." Mrs Grey continued. "Alanna was a lovely girl . . ."

"How do you even know?" I snapped. How did ANYONE KNOW??? Alanna was killed for being NICE!!!! Killed for being my NICE friend.

Mrs Grey smiled slightly. "She was at your place once, waiting for you . . .? Something like that." She shook her head to clear the details. "I was struggling to get my washing on the line, she saw and came over to help. I'm old, dear . . . lovely young girls like Alanna will always help old women like me . . . there's just not enough of them."

Well there's one less now!

I felt the stinging of my eyelids, which meant tears weren't far away. I blinked, furiously.

I couldn't shake Mrs Grey's sympathetic gaze. "And your mum had nothing but good to say about him, too."

"Daniel." Nick supplied. "Yeah, he was a good guy."

Yes he was . . . yes she was . . . two _good people_ whose murderer's motive could be traced straight back to me.

The guilt hit me once more, and it was like I'd swallowed an apple whole, my chest was constricted, I couldn't draw air . . . I avoided both pairs of eyes looking at me sympathetically and stared down into my Milo.

Why were they looking at me so sympathetically? They should be _blaming_ me.

"Melinda, dear, I'll just say it, shall I?"

Yeah. That'd be nice.

Preferably BEFORE I run out of Milo.

"Who do you know that owns a red convertible? A mustang, I think."

Um. No one in his or her _right mind_. Mustangs are SO 80's midlife crisis.

"No one . . ."

"Ah. Oh, I see then."

"Why?" Nick said sharply.

Mrs Grey Hedged. "Oh, it all seems so silly now! I'm quite sure it's nothing. And now I've wasted you afternoon, oh dear!"

"Mrs grey. Please. What was it?"

"Well, before I heard the shot," Mrs Grey leaned forward secretively, "I saw a red convertible drive past three times in the space of ten minutes. All very suspicious to an old lady like me, Melinda, dear, you understand."

"Sure." I mumbled.

"Well, this car would slow down each time it passed you house, Melinda, dear. It was almost as though it was waiting for something. . ."

"Did you tell the Police this." Nick said flatly.

"No, dear, no no. I thought it might mean something more to Melinda."

I shook my head, perturbed.

"Why would you assume that there's anything about this business Melinda would not like the Police to know about?"

"Her presence at the house, perhaps?" Mrs Grey said, too slyly for the old woman she claimed to be.

Nick's eyes hardened. "The police are convinced of Melinda de Silva's whereabouts from five to nine that afternoon. They've also, I believe, stricken your evidence from the file. And the police are not in the habit of re-establishing evidence without substantial reason."

"Police don't like negative publicity, either. What would you say to me going public?"

"I'd say it's still your word against ours. Your still the elderly nosy neighbour and Melinda's still the photogenic squeaky clean school girl."

"But I'm just the harmless concerned widow, who knits and tells stories to children"

"That's one 60+ stereotype, yes." Nick smiled, but there was nothing friendly about it. "But what about the bitter spinster, living alone, making other people miserable, handing out poisoned apples—"

I looked, with wide eyes, at my milo.

"—to school kids and inviting children into her house made of candy so she can cook them in her oven."

WHOA. SOMEONE'S HAD SOME BAD GRANNY EXPERIENCES, EH, NICK??????

"You have covered yourselves, I admit." Mrs Grey admitted with a nod. "But what about your visit now?"

"Prove it ever took place." Nick said smugly.

Holy CRAP. WHAT A CAT FIGHT.

"Oh very good, very good!!!" Mrs Grey burst out laughing. "You are your fathers son!!"

Oh, Don't remind me.

Nick's expression didn't change.

"Oh, my dear young man, don't be angry with me, I was only tricking. Just pulling your leg, you see."

Nick didn't look altogether that reassured.

"Oh, my dear boy. My late husband was a barrister. You reminded me a little of him, just now."

Nick look alarmed.

I'm sure I did too. Did Mrs Grey have the HOTS FOR NICK???

Hahahahahahahahahaha!!!! Here's a new one for you Nick!!!!!! ANOTHER NOTCH ON YOUR LEGENDARY BELT!! HAHAHAHA!!

"Umm." Nick, said, and I couldn't help but giggle at his obvious discomfort. "That's . . . nice."

"I don't know dears, I just wanted to be sure you knew someone with a red mustang . . . but you don't." She frowned." Oh, well." The frown disappeared. "I'm sure there's an explanation."

I thought about this. "Yeah . . ." I said. "I'm sure that's right." Even though that was the furthest conclusion from my mind.

Nick still looked like he'd been kicked in the balls (No doubt an aftermath from Mrs Grey's little confession).

"Right. Um, we'd better go . . ." I said, standing up and taking min and Nick's mugs out to the kitchen, rinsing it, and sitting it to dry. "Nick. Ready?"

"Too right I am." He mumbled, only loud enough for me to hear.

"Right, Um, thanks Mrs Grey, I'll, uh, see you around."

And I was out of there.

I got in Nick's car, buckled myself in and waited for him to do the same.

"Thing is." Nick said, as he put the car into reverse and backed out of the driveway. "Who do we know with a red Mustang? And how significant is this?"

I didn't have an answer for the first one, the second one, however . . ."You have no idea." I said grimly.

X-X-X

_And yes, Kell, in case you're wondering, I DO hate myself for this chapter. But it just goes to show how far I'm willing to go to get reviews, doesn't it?_

_So go on. Review. I'll get Nick to give you a lovely, sexually harassing hug . . ._

_Nick: DAMNIT, Bitch, always EXPLOITING ME!_

_Me: Do it. Or I'll turn you gay and make you play Cowboys and Indians with Jesse._

_[[Long silence_

_Nick: . . . You know, Mariah, I'd be GLAD to give a sexually harassing hug to each and everyone of your reviewers!_

_Me: You heard him. [[To Nick And don't forget the wandering hands. They LOVE the wandering hands._

Love and kisses,

Nick's Waiting for you.


	16. Dispelling Illusions

_**Boo!!!**_

_Ha! Betcha's weren't expecting me! I know, I know, I've been silent for ages . . . in my defence; I've been sick and busy. _

_But I'm back now, and as usual, I've got STUFF TO SAY!!!!! Lol._

_**FIRST**____ go and read my new fanfic: __"Aftermath"_

_You'll love it as much as I love your mum. lol. Just kidding about the loving your mum part. NOT kidding, however, about the go-read-__Aftermath__-because-you'll-love-it part. So yea. Do that._

_**SECOND**____Chenaol, in case you were wondering, is pronounced: "She-no-welle"_

_**THIRD**____ Apologies to my darling beta xtotalyatpeacex —I have not been able to make use of her services even ONCE due to my computer conspiring against me, alongside fanfiction-dot-net. I haven't got any alerts or P.Ms or anything for OVER A MONTH._

_Technology hates me._

_**FOURTH**__: WARNING: STRONG LANGUAGE AHEAD. _

_**Fifth**____ yea, this here chapter? . . . You should know. I have a plastic rubbish bin lid ready and waiting to protect me from the water bombs some of you will no doubt decide to assault me with after you finish reading this._

_So, it's cool. I'm ready for ya'll and your water balloons of death. Bring it on._

_**Stage direction:**__ . . . Mariah runs away))_

**X****-****X**-**X**

The Daughter Of: Chapter 16

"Dispelling Illusions"

**X****-****X****-****X**

I love the beach.

Did you know that?

Well, I do.

The beach and me are like Kirstie Alley and a deep fryer. Only unlike dear Kirstie and her deep fryer, you don't see me trying to pretend that I'm not totally dependant on the beach.

Sorry Kirstie. I used to like you, truly I did. But then you did that horrible Christmas movie with Tim Allen. ANY movie with both Christmas and Tim Allen is going to suck, that's just the way it is.

EXAMPLE: Santa Clauses' one through three.

Tim, mate, you should have stuck with tool time.

Anyway. The beach. When Nick came up with the bright idea that he and I should spend the day at the beach, I didn't take much persuading. At all. Because as I think I've mentioned, me and the beach . . .

Well. I'm not going to get into that again.

Although, Dontella Versace and plastic surgery would have been another apt comparison.

ANY-FUCKING-WAY.

We found ourselves a good spot on the sand, (no mean feat in Carmel-by-the-Sea: tourist land,) and without unnecessary preamble, I stripped off my dress, a thin light pink coloured baby doll, and was standing there in my latest wardrobe addition—are you wondering how I find time to shop with all the nutters set on killing me? ONLINE BOUTIQUES. The love of my life. Anyway. I was wearing my new black and white horizontal striped bikini.

Now I know what you're thinking!

Horizontal stripes—Wardrobe DON'T, if there ever was one. But think about it. It's a BIKINI. Who DOESN'T want their boobs and ass enhanced?

Other than Queen Latifah and HER boobs. Because in that instance, I can _fully_ see where she was coming from. Those things were a SAFETY HAZARD.

Anyway. Bootilicious with horizontal stripes was me.

Then I noticed Nick staring at me with his eyebrows raised.

And somehow I don't think _he_ was pondering the do's and don'ts of horizontal stripes.

"What?" I said, defensive, as his eyes raked me over from head to toe, and then back again.

"What happened," he said with a mocking lilt in his voice, not bothering to discontinue his visual assessment of me, "to shy miss goodie two feet?"

"Shoes," I corrected, sitting down in the sand next to him.

He dismissed this with a wave of his hand and started to say something else but I cut him off. "Whatever," I said as I lay back and stretched happily in the sun, "just coz there's more chicks checking me out than you," I joked, "Don't be a sore loser."

Yea . . . you there, lifeguard in her red swimmers . . . stop looking at me. I will NOT be floating your boat today.

Nick snorted. "Well. Don't worry kitten, if you decide to leave me for that fat tub of shit over there—" he indicated at a fellow bather further along the beach, "—I swear I won't make things difficult for the two of you." He moulded his voice into an imitation of sincerity, "I'll bow out gracefully, you know?"

I looked over at the—obese—gentleman in question and silently screamed.

EW EW EW!!!!! OBESE PEOPLE BACK ROLLS! GET ME _AWAY_ FROM THE OBESE PEOPLE BACK ROLLS!

Or please, someone, get that poor guy a shirt.

I winced faintly, trying not to let Nick see, and attempted to maintain my lofty moral stance. "Looks aren't important," I tried, "It doesn't matter—"

"Sure looks aren't important, kitten. Why don't you go and offer to rub sunscreen on his back for him, then? Make his day."

I think I'm going to hurl.

"I—um, think he'll be OK," I stuttered. "Besides, you know. Stranger danger. He might be a—a—"

"He's in danger of skin cancer Melinda," Nick teased, "Melanoma. Is that what you want? You want him to die a tragic, painful death?"

I chewed on my bottom lip.

Nick, sitting there on the sand absolutely pissing himself with laughter, then made my decision for me. "Go on Melinda," He said between fits. "I dare you."

He didn't think I would!

WELL THEN.

"Fine!" I said loudly, grabbing my bottle of SPF15 from my bag. "FINE. I WILL."

So I marched off down the beach, bottle in hand, and reaching the man, I squatted down next to him. "Hi there," I said pleasantly.

"Hi." He said, frowning a little at me, the random girl sitting here holding her bottle of sunscreen out to him.

"What's your name?"

"Arthur . . ."

"Well, Arthur, I just thought I'd give you this. Skin cancer is a danger to us all, you know." I smiled cheerfully and offered him the bottle.

"Uh . . . thanks." He said, taking the bottle.

"Not a problem!" I trilled. "Use it generously, and have a nice day!"

"Sure . . ."

I skipped away, dropping the perky Good Samaritan thing the instant I got back to Nick, who looked like he was going to have a heart attack from laughing so hard. "There," I said shortly. "I did it."

I plonked back down in the sand, waiting for him to be able to control himself long enough to force out a sentence.

"That was—"

No. He broke off into loud snorts of laughter again.

He tried again, "That was really—"

Nope.

"Um, it—"

I heaved a sigh and looked purposely off in the other direction.

"He probably thought," Nick just managed, "It was his lucky day!"

I elected to ignore this.

"You know," he added—finally able to construct full sentences again—wrapping his warm arm around my waist and dragging my body up against his. "I should disqualify you for not actually rubbing it on him."

"You care about him so much," I snapped, "You go and do it."

But I wasn't sure how much longer I could pretend to be mad at him.

"Well," he murmured into my ear, "I _am_ very concerned about Skin Cancer."

I couldn't stop myself from giggling. "Yes you certainly are."

"And therefore, I think, it is my duty to, ah, protect you from such tragedy . . . "

I squealed as I felt the cold, thick liquid hit my bare back. "Ah! Nick, can you—"

"What?" he said innocently, massaging the sunscreen into my back, his heated hands slowly and carefully caressing my bared skin.

Forgetting what it was that I was so indignant about, I leant my weight back into him without further protest.

"What is it that you would like me to do, Melinda?"

For once, I recognised now as a time to keep my mouth shut. No need to inflate his ego even more.

He bent his head down to slowly kiss my neck and I suddenly knew that I had never been happier.

Not JUST because I had this hot guy all over me—although I have to admit that was a part of it, otherwise that would make me a _liar_—but just being with him. I loved just BEING with him.

"Oh look," He said, his voice mild. I reluctantly opened my eyes, "Your boyfriend over there seems to be watching us."

I knew he was talking about the weight watchers candidate. "Fuck you," I said, laughing.

"Maybe, right now, he's undressing you with his eyes . . . not that that would take much imagination . . ."

He pulled at the bikini string at my neck, undoing it, and I scrambled to hold it in place.

"Nick!" I scolded, hurriedly trying to retie my top. A DOUBLE knot this time, "Public-fucking-place, you idiot."

"I know," He smirked. "I was just trying to provide the good people of Carmel with a little morning entertainment." He waved enthusiastically to my tubby friend whom I'd forced my sun block upon earlier.

"Nick!" I grabbed his hand and puled it down, not protesting when he rested it on the top of my thigh instead. "Honestly. Stop trying to hire me out, you fucking pimp. BESIDES." I added with a malicious smirk. "Maybe it was YOU who he was mentally undressing."

His grin abruptly died off his face to be replaced with a look of horror and suddenly it was my turn to be cracking up.

"You're bloody hilarious," He grumbled.

"Aw, now, baby," I crooned, pushing him back on the sand and crawling on top of him so I could pinch his cheek, "It's not your fault your just too irresistible!"

He glared at me.

"Seriously though," I continued mercilessly. "It's because you're such a CATCH! I mean, first Mrs Grey—" he flinched horribly and my grin widened, "—and now that prime example of masculinity over there," I nodded in ARTHUR'S general direction without taking my eyes off Nick's face.

"Well," I faked a look of sorrow as I prepared to throw his earlier words to me back in his face, " I understand if you feel that I just can't measure up. I mean, I'd _understand_ if you wanted to leave me for any of these other far superior offers. I promise I won't make things difficult for you. I'll bow out gracefully, you know?"

"Bitch," He replied, acknowledging himself to be beaten.

I smiled happily and leant down to kiss him on the lips. "Ah!—now," I warned, as his hands came around to rest on my butt. "What did I say about public places and trying to pimp me out?"

He frowned in concentration. "It was . . . a no? Hmm. Now are you absolutely CERTAIN about that?"

The tips of his fingers found their way under my bikini bottoms and I pulled away resolutely, smacking him on the shoulder as I lifted my weight off him and sat up. Then I realised this wasn't really much better, as I was actually straddling him now.

"Bloody teenagers," someone to the right of us muttered. I looked up and saw a father glaring at us while three kids sat at his feet building sandcastles.

"Sorry," I mumbled, flushing slightly and getting off Nick completely, deliberately moving back around to sit down beside him, putting a little more distance between us.

"What the hell?" Nick said, sitting up and glaring at the—perfectly normal weight, I am happy to report—man.

"No, shutup." I said. "He's right."

Nick stoped glaring and shrugged, knowing that I spoke the truth.

I know that personally I would have shot any couple being as grossly affectionate-slash-sexual in front of _me_.

. . . probably still would.

"Anyway," I said happily to Nick, piling up sand and beginning to sculpt it into what I knew would be the best damn sandcastle Carmel had ever seen. "I bet my sandcastle is going to kick YOUR sandcastle's ass."

"You're insane."

"Scared?" I threw back.

"You're on," He said. "But Melinda?"

"Yeah?"

He reached out a tanned arm and with one quick swipe completely killed my sandcastle—ok, pile of sand at the point, but shutup.

My jaw dropped open in mock affront.

OK. The Venus de Milo it was not, but THAT'S NOT VERY NICE!!!

"Oh!" I huffed, "Oh, its on now. It is ON!"

And on it certainly was.

Did I say how much I love the beach?

**X****-****X****-****X**

"Oh, God Nick," I moaned. "Did you have to?"

"What's wrong with it?" he asked, defensively.

"WHERE TO START!"

With the Seagulls?

The _concept_ of a 'Picnic'?

No. No, I got it. The Bucket of Family Feast KFC.

Oh, you think I'm being funny? NO!! I would not joke about such things!!

Shit. I really didn't expect him to want to make such a _day_ of a simple trip to the beach. True I understood how little time we have together when one of us—usually me—_isn't_ a murder target, but THIS IS UNREASONABLE.

A picnic.

A PICNIC!

He's out of his mind.

What, may I ask, is WRONG with a good old Peanut Butter and Jelly sandwich up in the old tree hut I randomly discovered at the back of the Slater property?

. . . Honest to god, I actually found a tree house. Can you IMAGINE my glee?

Except Nick, the bugger, wouldn't let me in it.

Nick: "It's an all BOYS tree hut Melinda. You might infect it with girl cooties."

Me: "You're such a dork."

Nick: (Smugly) "Maybe. But I'm a dork who knows the secret password."

Me: "You are. You're a Yugi-Oh loving dork."

Nick: "I know you are, but what am I?"

I met Nick's eyes, staring at me across the picnic table I was forced to retire to and sighed. "KFC, Nick? KFC? What is WRONG with you?"

"Many, many things," He answered cheerily. "Eat up now kitten."

I thought that I'd rather be shat on by a rhino, to be honest.

Not that I didn't know why he was so keen to avoid going back to his place. Something to do with Miss-I'm-so-gorgeous-that-even-though-I-have-a-totally-unpronouncable-name-I-can-still-do-whatever-I-want-because-I-am-the-lapdog-of-a-powerful-big-bad-lawyer-CHENAOL.

She _literally_ has not stopped giving him shit since she walked in on us THAT morning. Sure she kept her word about not telling anyone—OTHER than Slater.

But I have long ago resigned myself to the fact that if you tell a taken girl/woman something she WILL tell her partner. And that really YANKS MY BRAIDS, because I DID NOT sign on for a tell-all friendship with your current bed buddy.

ANYWAY.

Chenaol didn't spread it. But she DEFINITELY hadn't forgotten about it, as I had so dearly hoped.

Personally, I was able to put aside my own mortification and find her tormenting just that little bit humorous. NICK, on the other hand, was having just a few problems MOVING ON, and was not at all inclined to see the humour.

This I had found a little difficult to understand, I mean, if _I_ could walk my way through it, what on earth could have been his hold up? All too soon I found out at dinner last night.

Or, "Dinner with the Adams Family" as I privately refer to it as.

I remember being SO desperate to get out of having a full-blown family meal with all of them.

Unfortunately, as I have been saying ALL ALONG, fate is a bitch and wants me DEAD.

Or at least humiliated.

Which, in some instances, is the same thing, eh Britney?

So. Fate chose to put SLATER in my path, who absolutely INSISTED that I join them, and THEN, (like he alone wasn't enough of a KILLJOY,) somehow Nick's suddenly in on my little plan to do a runner—to The Tree Hut. Where else? And HE was all "Why wouldn't you eat with us?"

I met his unfathomable expression with pleading eyes and said, somewhat pathetically, "Because . . . uh, I don't eat. Food. I don't eat food. Because . . . I'll die. Painfully. I'll die painfully."

Not surprisingly, he didn't buy it, and so I had ended up meekly following him into the family dining room with my—figurative, obviously—tail well and truly between my legs.

Because, I mean, _seriously_? Dinner with the Slaters? CAN I _TAKE _THE FIFTH?????

Predictably, the MOMENT we got into sight—we were late, thanks to my many devious plots—Chenaol started with the shit heaping, greeting her stepson with an enthusiastic: "Ah! Now HERE'S my little man-slut!"

I could have made any number of uncouth comments about her own regular bed buddy—I mean, whose she calling a man-slut? She's MARRIED to one! But I managed to restrain myself, instead feeling my cheeks faintly begin to burn as I stood there, staring resolutely at one of the paintings on the wall.

Oh, SNAP. Slater just indicated at the seat on his right, and looked at me very pointedly. Oh . . . and he just gestured to the seat again . . . No, no no no no no! _Please_ don't ask me to sit by you, please don't ask me to sit by you, please no, please—

"Melinda?" His lilting voice carried easily across the room to me, and there was no way I could pretend not to have heard it. "Come, take a seat." Again, he motioned to the seat beside him and I knew that there was no way I could have pretended not to have understood him either.

Well.

I could have.

But it might have involved some pretty serious sign language.

Not something in which I had much confidence in my abilities.

I took a deep breath and went and sat next to him.

WHAT A DICK. Slater. I bet he knows, the _barstardo_, he KNOWS how fucking sci-fi I'm finding this and he's bloody loving it.

"Water, Melinda?" Slater collected me a glass and started pouring water into it for me without waiting for a reply. Not that I would have been able to come up with one anyway. YES and NO had abruptly moved beyond my mental capacity. Then Slater procured a round coaster and arranged the water neatly on it for me.

"Thanks, uh—"

"Paul," he supplied, smiling. The expression forced me to re-evaluate my assessment of him. He really didn't look so satanic when he smiled like that. "My name is Paul. I think we've surely moved past all this 'Slater' business, don't you?"

"Um," I hesitated, "Sure . . ."

To be perfectly honest, I was actually finding myself beginning to like him. Slater. Paul. Whoever. He might be a bit of a fruit loop, certainly—but aren't all mediators? And I'm beginning to realise that most of it is only surface deep.

WELL! HOW 'BOUT THAT!! EMOTIONAL GROWTH FOR MELINDA TONIGHT!!!

Check and mate.

Nick then took the seat beside me—patting my knee as he slid into his seat—and I looked at him and his dad, noticing for the first time, the similarities between them. I mean, besides the obvious, that they were both charming, funny and HOT—YES, Slater, (DAMNIT, _Paul_,) is hot. Not as hot as Nick though, of course. Because, I mean, not only is PAUL _old_– like, around forty! – But you know what?

I fully think he did my mum.

And that's just not hot.

But they both have . . . that unidentifiable something that makes them who they are, that irresistible quality that makes you want to hold onto them and never let them go, but yearn to slap them at the same time.

"Dancing With the Stars" would call it X factor, that's all I'm saying.

I'm still not taking back my previous evaluation of this situation as weird though. Coz it still definitely is.

Thankfully, someone then brought out some food. I don't really know what it WAS exactly, but I do know that there was fish, lettuce and avocado thrown in their somewhere. I HATE avocado.

I hate avocado like I hate . . .

No, I got nothing.

Its just: I hate avocado like I hate avocado.

This was about when Chenaol decided to strike up a conversation.

Lucky us.

"So _Nick_," she said, leaning forward and putting an elegant elbow on the table, cupping her neck with her hand. "Do you think we ought to buy you a big kid door lock?"

Fuck me with a stick; she's not going to let it go.

Beside me, I felt Nick's body tense as he ground his teeth together and glared at her.

And I?

I began to wish for death.

"Don't you agree sweetheart?" she asked to Slater—PAUL, HIS NAME IS PAUL—who just smiled indulgently at her, so she carried on. "Well. Anyhow . . ."

I exhaled with relief. Finally, she was going to LET it GO.

" . . I just don't understand how you can call ME a slut, Nicholas."

Or not.

"He what?" Slater frowned at his son.

Okay . . . I would quite like to run away from this table screaming now.

"Um, may I be excused?" I whispered to no one in particular.

I got ignored for my troubles.

"Ok . . ." I said slowly, sliding my chair back. "I'm just going to—"

"Stay," instructed Slater, as Nick's hand shot out and grabbed my wrist with his vice-like grip.

"Sure . . ." I mumbled, sliding my chair back in. "Because that's cool too . . ."

Nick still didn't release my wrist. Guess he thought I would have made a dash for it.

Which actually _was_ my plan.

Instead—and I suppose he viewed this as compensation, I did not—he loosened his grip and began to use his thumb to stroke the back of my hand. Then, understanding that he wanted me to stay for his sake, I twisted my wrist so I held his hand in my own, and squeezed gently.

You see, now, if I had COOL abnormal powers like being able to FLY, or INVISIBILITY I could get the hell out of here.

BUT NO! Seeing as, instead, I am stuck with this MEDIATOR shit, I had to go back to staring without purpose around the room like any other NORMAL person in an uncomfortable situation.

See? Check that out! All the con's of being abnormal with none of the pro's!

DAMN THIS!

Deciding that safety lay in familiarity, I went back to staring at the painting on which I'd lavished such attention on when I entered the room. It was a painting of the Notre Dame, I think. Pretty.

Then a mention of my own name, by Chenaol, drew my attention away from the painting. "I don't see why Melinda's even so embarrassed . . ."

Don't you? She does.

" . . . Didn't Nick tell you," Chenaol spoke directly to a mortified me now as she continued airily on with her little speech, "how I came home early that night and found him with that pretty red haired girl? That was a hundred times worse—"

"CHENAOL!!!!" Nick bellowed, loosing his temper completely. "ENOUGH."

Pretty? Did she HAVE to mention that she was pretty?

Chenaol, unperturbed, continued, "Oh, come on Nick. I'm just wondering why _she_—" again, she pointed, (intentionally, I was sure,) drawing everyone's attention back to me, and I was left with no option other than to redouble my concentrations on the painting.

Hey look!

That person taking photos of the Notre Dame has sticky out ears . . .

Cool.

Paul began to quietly chuckle.

"—should be so uncomfortable! You should have reassured her that we're used to your little ANTICS."

My eyes flew to Nick's face, and what I saw worried me.

Oh dear . . .

I averted my gaze uncomfortably, and found Slater looking intently at me instead. I felt the colour flood my cheeks and he winked.

"Chenaol," Nick hissed through gritted teeth. "SHUT THE FUCK UP."

Okay now, easy tiger . . . I tightened my grip on his hand, which I still held.

"Now, now," Paul chided Nick. "I think you need to calm down son."

"Dad, put your bitch back on her leash and _stay the fuck out of it_," he practically snarled, not taking his eyes of Chenaol.

Oh, this is getting nasty . . .

"Melinda," Nick said, turning to me, "I'm so sorry—"

I started to giggle. Really, I couldn't hold it in. And besides . . . what else could I do? Really, _what else could I do?_

Nick stared at me, his face betraying his uncertainty.

"I'm sorry Nick," I managed, "I just . . ." I trailed off. I just _WHAT_? Have mental issues?

Uh, YES.

"Don't worry about it," he said, getting up and coming over to me. "I'm just going out for a bit," he ducked and quickly pressed his lips to mine—I blushed again, feeling his father and stepmother's watching eyes most keenly, "I'll see you later."

He strode out of the room, being careful to shut the huge oak doors carefully behind him. I don't think he wanted me to understand how much this had upset him.

Recognising that he wanted to be alone and sympathising entirely, I didn't follow him.

This must have been something Chenaol found utterly incomprehensible. "Aren't you going after him?"

I stared her. "No, of course not," I replied, confused at her attitude. At her entire behaviour tonight, really. It was so out of character for her to be such a BITCH, because she's usually such a nice, SUNNY person. "He wants to be alone, I get that."

"But . . . oh _God_, I'm sorry Melinda! I just . . .Augh!" and she slumped over the table, hiding her face in her hands.

I looked, bewildered, at Slater/Paul, who exhaled gustily and relaxed his own posture a little too. I was starting to panic when he said slowly, "Well . . . That was certainly. . . illuminating."

I tightened my jaw and said, sounding even to my own ears more than a little strained: "Could you possibly trouble yourself to use smaller words so that I can understand what the hell you are talking about. I am NOT in the mood for a game of mental scrabble."

"No, of course you're not, my apologies."

WEIRDO.

"I believe," he continued, contriving to sound smooth and rehearsed even when he looked as if he has aged a couple years since entering into this conversation. "Chenaol was simply . . . testing him. At your – and HIS, if I'm right, which is just as worthy of note, bearing in mind that he—" Paul stopped himself, and after a slight pause, continued smooth as ever. "But perhaps this is not the time for tedious explanations of my son's psyche."

"Smaller words," I hissed.

"I'm sorry Melinda." Chenaol said, looking at me with huge, perfectly made up eyes, "I just . . . needed to know."

. . . Huh?

My expression must have betrayed my thoughts, as Paul, again, stepped in. "Chenaol is just trying to protect you."

WHY MUST EVERYONE BE TRYING TO PROTECT ME???? IT IS DRIVING ME UP THE FUCKING WALL!!!

"See," Paul was still talking, "She knows Nick. She needed to know that . . . well, forgive me my lack of tact, that you weren't just another."

Sheepishly, Chenaol nodded.

"Good of you," I mumbled sarcastically to her.

"Well _I_ think," Paul said perceptively, "That this little . . . experience has even demonstrated to you how different he feels about you compared to—"

"That's none of your business!" I interrupted furiously, unnerved by how close he had come to the truth.

Nick had told me, and I believed him. That was all I needed, and frankly, all I could handle.

Sheepish expression lingering, Chenaol asked, "You're not mad at me?"

I smiled at the pretty blonde. "No . . ." then my forehead furrowed, "But I think he might be mad enough for two."

"Yes . . ." she said, broodingly. "I don't think—" and I was astonished to see her break off as beads of moisture began to slowly weave their way down her cheeks.

Of course, it would be too much to ask that the model's mascara ran. NOPE, she looked beautiful, even when crying.

When _I_ cry, my eyes get all red and puffy and whatever makeup I'm wearing immediately begins to look as though it were applied with a water blaster.

Some people have all the damn luck.

"—I don't think he's ever going to forgive me . . ." Her voice wavered slightly on the last word.

I didn't know what to say.

"Hmm," was Paul's—unhelpful, in my opinion—comment. "What I want to know, was if he really called you a—"

"A slut?" she asked, "No. I made it up."

But the speed with which she looked down at her plate after answering convinced me that she wasn't telling the truth.

We sat in silence for a few minutes, each of us lost in our respective thoughts.

"Melinda?" Chenaol whispered getting up from her place at the table and coming over to stand behind me. Warily I got up and faced her, thinking; _what NOW? _

She put her arms around me and held me tightly to her, "I really am sorry."

Ah!!!!!! Model on me!!!! Get it off!!

"Umm . . ." I did that awkward, ginger pat on the back thing. "Its . . . cool . . . I think . . . "

But, that wasn't the weirdest thing of the night. No. The weirdest thing would be that I chose, actually chose, of my own free will, to spend the rest of the evening with Paul and Chenaol.

One Chenaol let go of me, that is.

And boy did that take a while.

"You see?" Nick said to me presently, distracting me from dwelling upon the events of last night at _la casa de Slater._ "THIS—" he indicated to the red bucket bearing the image of the colonel, "—is way better than that green shit that you wanted to get."

"That was SUSHI, country boy."

He made eye contact with me and defiantly stuffed another fry in his mouth.

I rolled my eyes.

"Hey, I know!" He grinned at me, a childish glint in his eyes, "See that?" he pointed at a couple down the road from us sitting at another conveniently situated table, reclaiming food from one another's mouths.

I couldn't help but wince.

"Maybe you would enjoy the colonel's labours a little more if—" Nick paused to shove yet another fry in his mouth and lean over the table toward me, "—you got it out of my mouth. Go on." His eyes were positively gleaming as he imitated the guy's idiotic facial expression. "Kiss me. You know you can't resist."

"Yeah . . . _No_," I said, giggling at the idiot sitting across from me. "Sorry baby. Mashed potato just doesn't flick my switch."

He gasped and faked a look of rejection as he clutched the carton of chips to his chest and sat back down. "Ok then! But one day you'll see. I'll prove you wrong, just wait."

I cracked up.

My boyfriend was such a dork. A lovable dork.

Then I caught sight something weird out of the corner of my eyes. A man stood on the footpath on the other side of the road, with his back to us, taking pictures of his wife as she laughingly posed in front of the sand.

Im sure . . . I'm sure I just saw that woman with the pram stroll right through them.

I lifted my sunglasses and with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, was able to ascertain that these two beachcombers were, upon closer inspection, clearly in possession of full season membership passes to that exclusive club known as the un-dead.

Dracula is president, didn't you know?

Marilyn Monroe _**(A/N: Wasn't she the most gorgeous thing?)**_ sings him happy birthday every year, without fail.

Anna Nicole _**(A/N: I love you, Rest In Peace)**_ is his second in command, or so I'm told.

Elvis threw a bit of a tanty and quit. There's just no pleasing the king.

I'm joking.

Well, joking about the hierarchy, at any rate.

Maybe they were looking for either me or Nick, because the second the female saw me watching them—obviously my miserable expression was not as much of a deterrent as I had hoped—she alerted her partner and they began to head towards us.

DAMN UN-DEAD CLUB.

If it were possible—and in anyway helpful—I'd hold a round up and SHOOT YOU ALL!

. . . Anger issues? _Me?_ Naw . . .

I looked over at Nick with an expression that I could only imagine conveyed my unadulterated dread.

Instantly he tensed. "What? What is it?"

I heaved a sigh and gestured at the couple now patiently waiting for traffic to abate before crossing the road.

"Aw . . ."

The male quickly tired of waiting—I could have told him that waiting for an opening in Carmel-by-the-Sea traffic was like waiting for Prince Charles to clue in to the fact that Camilla Parker-Bowles is a TRAMP: _Probable_, but difficult to determine _when. _So, taking his wife by the arm, he and she both shimmered into non-existence.

And shimmered right back into existence a few feet from our table.

Again: DAMN UN-DEAD CLUB.

"Don't you REALISE," I said snottily, not bothering with any such trivial things as introductions or salutations. "That materialization is probably REALLY bad for the environment?"

No, really.

Why can't ghosts just ride a bike like _EVERY_BODY ELSE??????

The female blinked, confused. "I'm sorry." I muttered. "I'm just . . . not in the zone today. Can I help you?" I finished, more politely.

"How are you's today?" The male asked us.

Only it sounded more like, 'ouh arh youse tewday?'

I frowned slightly. His accent was . . . Finnish? What on earth is one—two, I'm going to assume—ghosts from Finland doing in little old Carmel?

What, GHOSTS WANT TO SEE THE WORLD??

You've got to be kidding me.

I couldn't stop myself from asking, "what, are you _Finnish_?"

"Yes . . . we are," the woman confirmed, her accent less heavy than his.

I was astounded. "Huh! Well fuck my mum!"

"_Pardon?_"

"Oh, no—" I hastened, "Don't, I was just expressing my surprise—"

Nick cut me off smoothly, "Can we help you?"

Good thing he did, too. I don't think, somehow, that Finland is quite ready for Melinda.

It was about then I noticed, that although he was speaking to them, Nick was still looked fixedly at me.

. . . huh?

Wait.

LIGHTBULB!!!!!!!!

Ok—PUBLIC PLACE AND TALKING TO GHOSTS: bit of a predicament. Thank God Nick's so much SMARTER than me.

God . . . how embarrassing. I'm so DUMB sometimes.

Belatedly, I looked around; hoping no one was eavesdropping on my conversation with thin air.

If only I really _were_ insane, and in the habit of conversing with thin air.

That—psychosis—would be by far preferable to THIS, this knowledge that they were never going to leave me alone.

I was cursed . . . a marked man.

And I was just dragging everyone else down with me.

Stacy.

Brian.

Daniel.

Alanna.

There wouldn't be anyone else. I resolved. No other name to add to that morbid list.

No one could be allowed to stand in front of me anymore.

I had to, irretrievably dispel this illusion. They WEREN'T safe just because I wanted them to be. Because at the end of the day . . . there's a damn good chance that Keith was going to get me.

And I knew first hand that he wasn't too picky about picking off those who stood in front of me. Or even those who stood anywhere remotely close to me.

I couldn't—WOULDN'T—let that happen.

This resolution caused me no end of mental unrest, and I looked up at Nick with shocking clarity.

I was barely able to hear the rest of Nick's and them—those ghosts, those _stupid_ ghosts who are part of something that's cost me _everything_—their conversation, I was lost inside my own head, endlessly going over what I knew I had to do.

I barely retained sufficient awareness to notice when our foreign—in more ways than one—visitors left us, dematerialising without re-appearing, this time.

"What—" I stoped to try and clear the huskiness from my voice, "What did they need?"

Nick smile was wry. "Nothing, can you believe it? Their deaths were abrupt—"

I had ascertained that already. Two of them, clearly man and wife? Had to have been an accident. Car crash . . . fire . . . meteor . . . take your pick.

Its not like it _mattered_ why.

"—And they're waiting for their daughter to be OK, apparently. You know, I have to hand it to you. Wouldn't cha know? Sometimes it _is_ better to hear them out. "

I couldn't even work up a smile.

"Melinda? Melinda, are you alright?"

"I'm fine."

"Are you sure—?"

I cut him off, "Yes. Um, so, do you want to . . . come for a walk?"

I couldn't keep delaying.

That only made it worse.

I looked up at the sun beginning to set beyond the ocean and made my final decision then and there.

"Sure," Nick answered me, smiling again. "But can I take the KFC?"

My chest suddenly felt hollow and my throat dry.

"Of course," I replied, faking a sunny smile.

While its true that Carmel beaches are insanely crowded, its possible to get a stretch of sand to yourself if you wait until the temperature settles to below freezing, the lifeguards pack up, and even the most stubborn of bathers finally admit defeat.

This is what we did.

"Thanks," I said, as Nick stoped me for a second, drawing my indigo woollen wrap tighter around me, and pulling my body against his own in, I assume, an attempt to warm my freezing skin.

Not that it made much difference.

The chill was a result of the mindset, not the elements.

My dress whipped around my legs as I gently pulled away from him and resumed walking along, my sandals leaving imprints in the dry sand that were quickly blown away by the icy wind.

Nick effortlessly caught back up with me, deliberately weaving his hand back through my own.

I looked up at him, strolling along, unburdened, beside me; and took in with painstaking detail, every inch of his humbling appearance. His sharp facial features; the square jaw with only the barest trace of stubble, the dark hair set in his trademark style of controlled disarray, his flawless physique and then his eyes . . .

Nick glanced down at me then and smiled, an expression formed more with his eyes than his mouth and I felt my heart contract.

His eyes . . . they were such a startling shade of blue that made me think—and never would I have dared voice this thought aloud, romantically inclined as it was—of a frozen over lake.

But right now, when he smiled at me like that . . . the ice melted away and I was able to catch a glimpse of the warm pools beneath.

The pain in my chest intensified, but this time, I knew, it had little to do with my pleasure at his smiles and everything to do with pain.

It was more than I could take.

I couldn't do this.

I _couldn't._

But for his sake . . . I would.

"Nick," I said in a small voice, "I—"

He cut me off with a groan. "Hey, if this is more about that _sushi _shit, I told you. No fucking way."

"It's not," my voice sounded pathetic even to my own ears and I cleared my throat. "Nick, I—um, we—er . . ."

If only I could've willed the stabbing pain in my chest to subside.

"Aw, it's ok kitten!" he jumped in, "You're not the first to feel the awesome power of my . . ." He flexed a bicep, "God like physique."

I thought ruefully that he wasn't in anyway guilty of over-exaggeration. _God like physique _really was a very good description.

But that still wasn't why I felt so strongly about him. It was just SOMETHING—

God help me, I'm back to "X Factor" again.

I saw his concerned frown over my lack of mirth, but still I didn't crack a smile. I really couldn't.

"Melinda?" his frown deepened as he guided me over, and then down onto, one of the many benches that lined this stretch of beach.

The temperature was cooling rapidly now, and as a result, were really were two of the only people still stubbornly braving the freezing temperature and vicious winds in order to spend just a little more time by the forever picturesque ocean.

"Kitten?" Nick probed again, using his preferred nickname for me which, in the past, had almost never failed to goad me into response, but right now I thought I'd shatter if I had to hear him voice his condescending endearment ever again.

"I think," I started nervously, "That I'll, uh, be going home tonight." I didn't let myself look up from my bare knees as I felt his weight join mine on the bench.

His answering silence to my statement stretched on, surrounding me, cocooning me, compelling me to dispel it. And stupidly, I did.

I began to make inconsequent little explanations of no real importance to anyone, "Nick, you've been the best, uh, host . . ."

I got some rather badly time flashbacks of Nick's late night visits that went far beyond the responsibilities of your average host.

" . . . But," I ploughed on, stupidly not looking up to gauge his reaction. Perhaps if I had, I like to think that I would have shut the fuck up. But realistically, I won't kid myself. "I think its time for me to go . . . I have to . . . really go. I've monopolised you for long enough, and I think it's time for me to leave. You. Leave you."

This was wrong. This was all wrong. My words were coming out disjointed and meaningless in my stupid attempt at detachment. I knew even before I'd finished speaking how WRONG I sounded.

"So," Nick said carefully, "What are you saying Melinda?"

I forced myself to look up and meet his eyes, and caught my breath at the disbelief I saw there.

"You're not . . .?" He sounded uncertain, and it was unbearable to hear such a confidant, self-assured guy sounding so unsure. " . . . Are you?"

I dropped my eyes back to my knees, and noted that I had goose bumps. I was so SURE that I was doing the right thing . . . but looking at him . . . maybe I've confused, like so many others before me, right with wrong . .

He put a gentle hand on my cheek—I flinched—and lifted my face up to his. I shut my eyes tightly rather than confront the expression I feared to see in his eyes.

Pathetic, I know.

Cowardly, well, I knew that too.

I jumped slightly as I felt his lips on mine, and my eyes flew open—then settled back closed as I shut my mind off and willingly gave myself over to the familiar sensation of having Nick Slater's lips move against my own.

My feelings for him were stronger that I would have ever dreamed possible.

That's the only defence I have, that's my only excuse.

And I'm just beginning to realise that it's not enough.

So I pulled away from him.

It was usually me who pulled away.

And now, it always would be.

We sat there in silence for a minute, and I turned my head into the wind, letting the salty wind sting my eyes, so I could convince myself that it was the sole reason for the tears I could feel gathering.

"Yes," I answered him, feeling the tears spill over. "I am."

Then I finally looked up into his eyes and couldn't repress a shiver, which I blamed on the cold.

"So," he said tightly. "That's it, is it? You've had your fun, that's it, you're gone?"

"I didn't—" I paused. "Nick . . . I'm so sorry—"

He laughed bitterly, cutting me off. "Oh please. Don't even bother apologising. It's my own damn fault."

I frowned slightly, confused. He saw this and hastened to explain.

I really wish he hadn't.

"Melinda, you made me work my fucking ass of to prove to you that this time was different. Prove that you weren't just my latest _piece of __ass_, that I wasn't USING you, or, or, PLAYING with your head—" he broke off and shook his head, smiling in an expression of merciless self-mockery.

I looked at him, silently pleading, only to cringe at the unforgiving coldness I saw in his eyes.

Ice . . .

He was angry, incredibly angry . . . but behind his anger he failed to fully mask his hurt. And even then I never could have guessed to what extent.

His eyes bore into me, hating me, as he said, "I never thought to make YOU prove yourself to ME." He laughed again, a deranged, hollow sound that resonated in my mind, haunting me long after we parted ways that night. "_I_ had to earn your trust. But mine you just took, just like that."

I made an effort to wipe the tears from my cheeks, breaking eye contact with him. But nothing I did could help me block out his words, and the true story they told.

"All along you said you wouldn't be played with . . . but I was your plaything all along, wasn't I?"

"No," my whispered denial sounded pathetic even to my own ears.

"WASN'T I??" He shouted, his anger suddenly exploding out of his control. He leapt up off the bench and started to stride up and down in front of me, his footsteps tearing up the sand. I just sat there, feeling helpless and miserable. "You bitch. You frigid, manipulating BITCH."

I deserved every word of that, I knew, except maybe frigid. That's a little unjust, as, if memory serves, HE was the one who kept saying no to ME.

But the rest he had about right.

I watched him glare at me, his hands balled so tightly into fists that they were shaking. His temper had rapidly escalated into violence and I had to admit that for once, I was truly scared of him.

"It's kind of unfair, don't you think?" He asked suddenly, possibly angered more by my silence. "I finally manage to convince you that I wasn't just after a root and scoot . . ."

I winced. He was right. Even if his choice of words was debatable, he was right.

" . . . and now you're running away." He leaned over and pressed his hands on the backrest of the bench, on either side of my shoulders, effectively trapping me in place. "What did you WANT from me, Melinda?"

Miserably I straightened up and met his furious eyes.

"What the FUCK did you WANT from me?"

I didn't reply. I couldn't. For once . . . I had no answer.

He let out a frustrated sound and smashed the backrest of the bench with both fists, and I let out a small gasp as I felt myself falling backwards as the backrest parted company from the seat—only I didn't fall. Nick grabbed my arm in a grip so tight I feared for my circulation and yanked me forwards before I could fall.

This did nothing at all to ease my terror.

"Nick," I pleaded in a soft voice, blinking back tears. "Please . . . just let me go."

He knew I wasn't just talking about my arm.

Wordlessly he stepped back away from me, releasing my arm, which had begun to throb.

"Nick . . ." I murmured to his now turned back, having completely forgetting his earlier warning about apologies, "I am so, so sorry—"

"Just shut up!" he exclaimed, turning back to face me, his voice sounding strained as he tried to control his fury. "Just fucking shut up! I can't listen to your SHIT! I _loved_ you, Melinda. I LOVED YOU!"

Tears streamed unchecked and unheeded down my face and all I could do was stare disbelieving up at him.

He'd . . . loved me?

How could he have . . .? Even though I . . .?

"You . . . you loved me?" I searched weakly for some sort of confirmation; half expecting him to take it back and say something along the lines of _whoopsie daisies—slip of the tongue. _

He frowned slightly. "You really didn't know?"

. . . _No. _

I knew he LIKED me, had a soft spot for me . . . but LOVE? I didn't think he was capable of LOVING me.

Yet, sometimes, some of the things he said did make me wonder—

Still. I thought it was just another of the many dubious gifts from my wistful subconscious.

A trick of the mind . . . Deception of the senses . . . Wistful thinking . . .

Because I would have liked very much to think that he was in love with me. Just like I . . .

Like I was in love with him.

"You did love me," I said with a shock of realisation that made me feel like I'd been hit by a bus.

"Well," he said with another of his haunting, bitter laughs that never in a million years would have passed for a sound of mirth. "I can't really just STOP. I fucking _love_ you. And I thought, I THOUGHT, even if you couldn't say it, that you loved me back."

. . . he was right. I did.

I _do_.

I love him . . .

But I knew, even as I realised this, I knew that even this couldn't block out the small voice at the back of my mind, knew that it was useless to think that this could make a difference . . . I knew.

I knew it was time for me to dispel the illusion.

"You _do_," Nick said suddenly, realisation alive in his voice.

I bit my lip.

Nick was silent for a moment, and then he said, slowly, like he was saying the words directly as he thought them, with no time for reflection or consideration, "Melinda . . . I don't know what this is for . . . why your doing this . . ." then with sudden alarming clarity, "you're lying to me, aren't you? You don't really want—_WHY_?"

Alarm sirens began screeching in my head.

I'd forgotten how well he knew me.

"No," I said, my voice no longer indecisive, my tears dry. "I've just realised . . ."

WHAT?? I've just realised WHAT?? I asked myself, feeling the waves of panic relentlessly harassing me. What could I say?

Somehow I thought '_its not you, its me . . ._' was a no go.

I knew I had to lie to him. And I knew that my lie would have to hurt him.

"It's just . . ." I said slowly, then, as I decided on my words, I inwardly winced. "I'm bored. You're not enough."

If he could believe this, believe this of me . . .

I had to. One day he might understand.

"Well," I gave a flip little smile and a shrug as I got to my feet. "You just weren't what I thought. And I—"

Oh God. I've got something. Something that would definitely hurt him . . .

"—I've found someone who IS what I want," I finished.

I watched silently as the effect of my words sank in, and hated myself.

"Who?" he asked quietly.

"Oh, I don't think I should—"

"_Who?" _he repeated with more intensity than before.

"Nick, please don't do this."

"WHO??" he shouted suddenly, "tell me Melinda! Tell me who he is—why wont you tell me his name?"

Because he doesn't have a name! I screamed silently. Or if he did, it would be yours!!

Name . . . I thought wildly, I need a name . . . someone who Nick would leave alone . . .

"Scott Jensen," I said the first name that came into my mind, not pausing to consider any possible—ok, probable—negative repercussions my words could have.

"WHAT? Does Arabia . . . wait." He stared at me shrewdly, and I experienced some violent misgivings.

He didn't believe me. It just would never happen. _I_ wouldn't do that to Arabia, and SCOTT wouldn't do that to Arabia.

"Ok," I said quickly, "I lied. Chad. Chad Williams, the football player. But I think you know him from the track team."

I watched this sink in.

"No fucking way." Nick said flatly, but not disbelievingly this time. "I TOLD him to stay the fuck away from you—"

I jumped on this as a way to turn the tables. "You WHAT? You told him to—how DARE YOU!"

"Melinda," he shot me a look of pure icy venom. "Shut up. People who cheat on their boyfriends really can't lay any right to high moral ground."

TRUE.

But I'd scented a decent argument that might distract him a little from his previous train of thought and I wasn't going to let it go. "What did you say to him?"

"For Christ's sake—"

"No. Tell me."

"It's not—"

"I have every right to know."

The painful feeling of constriction in my chest was getting stronger, but I ignored it and pressed on, even thought I must have known, deep down, that this wasn't doing any good.

"I didn't like how easily you two got on," Nick gave in and supplied, no longer meeting my gaze but now staring out at the rough ocean. "I didn't like how he looked at you, and I thought, as you were my girlfriend, I was perfectly entitled to threaten to bash the cunts face in."

His eyes came back to meet mine and I couldn't help but gasp at the unyielding hatred I saw there—yet I couldn't tell if that hatred was for me, or himself.

"How was I to know that you were fucking him at the time?" Nick finished, deliberately crude.

I gritted my teeth and didn't deny it.

"Slut," He said coldly, prompted by my silence. "Bet Chad found that a bit of a laugh. Me telling him to stay away from my girlfriend when he knew all along that it was HIS cock you'd been sucking to pass the time."

Ok, now this was getting a little hard to hear . . .

Nevertheless, I gritted my teeth and lifted my chin as I said in an emotionless voice, "Yeah. Sorry about that."

His expression! I would have given ANYTHING to have been spared that sight. He looked like he'd been punched in the face by Samuel-mutha-fukin-L-Jackson.

He looked so . . . _betrayed_.

I froze my expression in place and refused to take my words back. I even gave a dismissive little toss of my head—even though it was killing me to imagine what the gesture might have meant to him.

Was it good or bad that he believed me?

Mutely Nick came back and sat back down on the now wrecked bench.

I moved to sit down beside him, putting distance between us on the seat to further emphasise my point—cruel, I know—and sat with my spine slightly hunched and my hands gripping the edge of the seat.

Looking for all the world like a guilty and disgraced _bitch_ who was a cruel user to people who deserved better.

Coincidentally, this was exactly how I was feeling . . . just not for the reasons I'd given Nick.

We sat there in silence for a few minutes, every second of that I used to worry about what he was thinking, what he might do, what he was _thinking_ about saying, what he was thinking about _doing_ . . .

Because as well as I now know him—And I know him well, I think. I know that when he was a kid he wanted to be a DENTIST, (of all things,) I know all about the pet turtle he'd had as a kid, I—well. Whatever. Didn't matter now.

I still didn't know what he was thinking.

And as if endorsing this, Nick surprised the shit out of me by looking me in the eyes and saying calmly, "I don't believe you."

I just about choked.

What would it _TAKE_??????????

"Nick, please—"

"No, YOU please. Tell me what the fuck is going on here, and stop LYING TO ME."

"What will it TAKE?" I screamed at him, loosing it completely. "Do I ACTUALLY have to go and fuck Chad or Scott or WHOEVER??? Should I do it in your HOUSE?? In your room?? With your DAD??? WHAT???"

Nick pulled a disgusted face. "Please don't have sex with my father."

"Well would it WORK??" I shouted, incensed, "Because—"

He just laughed.

This made me madder.

"Nick, PLEASE," I begged, dismayed to find myself crying again. "Please . . . just . . . let it go. Let _me _go."

He looked at me seriously for a moment. Then he pulled me to my feet and we stood there together, me staring off at the sea as he rested his chin on the top of my head.

I should have pulled away.

I knew I had to.

But it was something about physical contact between Nick and myself that just made me think, _not yet. Not yet—just give me a few more seconds._

"Ok then." Nick said, lifting his head and wrapping his arms around me.

I looked up at him, trying to make my face impassive.

"I can forget," he said, "about all of this . . . I can forget you, creeping into my room in the middle of the night because you dreamed that you got chased by a giant Starbucks cappuccino—was that it?"

"Shutup," I muttered. "It was like 20 feet tall."

He smiled tolerantly and continued, "I can forget about you in the men's toilets, not sure wether to be more worried about how you'd crashed my car, or the wall urinals—"

This time I decided that silence was my best form of defence.

Because I'm a _chick_, after all. I can't help it that wall urinals freak me out.

"—I can even forget that you just threatened to have sex with my father . . . which he would probably be all for, by the way—"

"Eww." I muttered. It didn't hit me until much later just how low Nick's opinion of his father was.

"—I can forget about all of that. I can forget about YOU if . . ." this is when I noticed that as he raised a hand to stroke my cheek with the back of his fingers, that his hands were trembling slightly. " . . . If you can look me in the eyes and tell me that you don't love me, that you never did."

Heavy silence me the end of his words. All I could do was stare.

I felt like I was about to choke, I had to concentrate to draw air . . . I pushed myself out of his embrace and turned my back on him.

I couldn't let him see my face until I was sure I had my expression under control.

I looked down at my sandals and tried to take deep breaths. Tried to keep breathing.

I had to do this. For _him_. I HAD to!!!!

Even though I felt like I was about to shatter into a thousand pieces, like my lungs would explode . . .

I had to.

So . . . I did.

I took a deep breath, and pushing aside any thoughts of consequence, I turned and looked him directly in the eyes and then, in a voice that I like to think hardly shook at all, I lied to him and said:

"I don't love you."

Then I turned, deliberately not letting myself look at his eyes, and I walked away.

Away from him.

And away from me.

X-X-X

_Now I know that not many of you darling readers will have liked this. In fact, I see THE SILENT TREATMENT somewhere in my imminent future._

_But think about it._

_In New Moon, didn't you just HATE it when Edward left? I know I did. I was ready to cry. _

"_You're not good for me" indeed! _

_But I'm sure that you, like me, understood the necessity of it. He had to go; his characterization demanded it, as did the plot—as the author has explained._

_Please try to understand why I did a similar thing in this chapter. Melinda honestly believes she has no other choice, and just like when our favourite Cullen left, you don't have to like it. Just review it. lol._

_So please don't break my heart: REVIEW. _


	17. STOP: emo time

_RIGHT. That's it._

_I am NOT HAPPY with the amount of reviews for this story. You know what you ladies have done? You pushed me over the edge. WAY OVER. And now I am forced to write BAD EMO POETRY TO EXPRESS MY HEARTBREAK._

_Here it is:_

**X**-**X**-**X**

My heard bleeds **blood** . . .

And I feel like . . . **crud** . . .

This is because my fanfic reviewers DUMPED **me** . . .

And now I really, really need to **pee** . . .

--Shut up, nothing else interesting rhymes with "**Me**" . . .

. . . Ok, lets get back to how I'm so **Emo** . . .

What the hell rhymes with **emo** . . .?

**Skeemo** . . .?

No . . . not even **THAT** . . .

Hey! Don't laugh at me, your mum is **fat** . . .

Ok, so my emo poem might **suck** . . .

But now I finally have an excuse to say **FUCK**!

**X**-**X**-**X**

_Yea!!! YEA!!!!!! HOW YOU LIKE THAT!!!!_

_I bet that, right now, words are failing you. _

_. . . . You really should have just reviewed._


	18. BURNT

_**Kia Ora all.**_

_**I said I would have this chapter completed by Christmas and here it is, COMPLETED BY CHRISTMAS!!!!!!**_

_**Of course, when I set myself a Christmas deadline, I thought I had another whole week to go before Christmas. Then I realised that I had MISCOUNTED, and in fact, I only had four days. **_

_**Yet I said I would do it.**_

_**What a jam.**_

_**So on Christmas Eve, I was up at Five Thirty in the morning and writing.**_

_**I then went to bed at THREE that night (SANTA was in bed before me,) only to get up today—Christmas Day—at FIVE IN THE MORNING. **_

_**And that's kind of sucky, by the way, because Grandmas' always take photos of you on Christmas and I have circles under my eyes that are darker than a racoons. **_

_**But it was worth it, because I wanted to give a Christmas present to all you darlings who reviewed me!!!!! **_

_**. . . Even if I did have to torture you with a little BAD EMO POERTY first.**_

_**But it's all ok, because I now have Two Hundred reviews!!!!!!!! YEYA!!!!!!!!! HUGE thank you to my two-hundredth reviewer: an anonymous chikee-dee styling herself as Mariah, ( . . . Hot name, dude. Really. You have to be a real sexy hot biatch to have such a pimping name as "Mariah" . . .) So a huge thanks to Mariah-the-second.**_

_**So :**_

_**TO: All my beyootiful reviewers, **_

_**FROM: Me, the eternally grateful Mariah.**_

**The Daughter Of**

"**BURNT"**

I don't think it would be all that overly indulgent of me to say that over my seventeen years, I have experienced my share of pain.

I should be on JACKASS, really I should. I'm a NATURAL with the dumb ideas.

Like that time when I decided it would be a great idea to pinch Grandma's umbrella and jump off Granddad's tool shed. **(A/N: I've SO done that. Who else? Come on, hands up, we're all friends here . . .) **THAT one was definitely a TEN on the old pain-o-meter.

See, I know now that stuff that SEEMS like a really good idea when your about six and high on "Raro" cordial actually turns out to be NOT such a great idea once the Raro wears off and you're in hospital.

Lesson learned, thanks.

…Seriously though, how come Mary Poppins was able to FLY with nothing but an umbrella and a really good tail wind, whereas _I_ was NOT? I mean, what makes that bitch so damn special, anyway?

My point IS, that I had thought that Mary Poppins imitations were painful. And boy are they. But this . . . this thing today with Nick . . .

This had the Mary Poppins thing beaten hands down.

Not even a fair fight.

. . . God . . . someone just put a bullet in my head, would you?

Oh, no wait, its OK, you don't have to. I know a ghost who'd be only too happy to do the job.

This is fucked up, man. _Life_ is FUCKED UP.

I leant back against the dimly lit brick wall of the restaurant that had been the first building that I'd come across since I'd left Nick—over four hours ago—and sighed quietly.

. . . it was starting to get quite dark now . . .

I wondered what I was going to do.

It wasn't so much the whole 'being stranded' thing that was bothering me—although that was certainly something to keep in mind—It was more about . . .

What to do now?

I gritted my teeth and pushed myself off from the wall. Taking a deep breath, I pulled the restaurant door open and walked in.

"May I help you?" I was instantly accosted by a pretty girl with short, spiky black hair and a clipboard.

She looked nervous.

Like robbers walked around in Trelise Cooper sundresses.

"Yes." I said shortly. "Your payphone. Where is it?"

Because my cell-phone? My for emergency use cell-phone? In my handbag. And where was my handbag? In Nick's car.

And somehow, I didn't think insurance would accept my reasons for not retrieving it:

"_Why didn't you return and claim your property?" An official, disinterested voice. _

"_Umm . . . because I kinda had to leave in a hurry . . ."_

"_Why was that, Miss de Silva?"_

"_Because Nick was getting all homicidal . . . ."_

"''_Nick'? Who is 'Nick'?" said in a very sceptical tone, deigned to cast aspirations as to my sanity. _

"_Umm . . . You know what? Forget about it. I don't need my credit cards. My phone. Car keys. The photos of me and my best friend that were taken before she was MURDERED . . . Don't need them. And the bag was Louis Vutton too, but, you know. Don't need that either. So, uh, say hi to the family for me. Buh bye." _

HELL NO.

"I'm sorry miss, use of our payphone is restricted to . . ." The waitress trailed off, perhaps seeing in my expression that I was really not in the mood for any of her _restaurant policy_ crap.

Probably a good thing she did stop with her "I'm sorry miss" shit, too, else wise she just may have gotten that clipboard through her cranium for her efforts.

"Um . . ." She shot a quick look behind her, "Sure, follow me."

I murmured my gratitude and followed her up a wooden staircase up to what I was forced to assume was a bar, having never actually been in one before.

However, the raucous laughter and yelling were a bit of a giveaway.

As was the quiet man in the corner, drowning his troubles with shot glass after shot glass of a clear liquid that I doubted very much was mineral water.

I know the feeling buddy. I know the feeling.

The bar itself was a cosy room, the decor comprised entirely from worn decorative bricks and polished wood; the effect was rather rustic and comfortable. The lighting was dull and there was a large television high on the wall, showing some sports game or another.

But most importantly in the corner rested a black wall-mounted payphone.

I walked directly over to the phone and picked up the receiver, holding it to my ear and listening to the dial tone.

I went to slide my change in, but paused, thinking over whom it was I thought I was going to call.

I got nothing.

I slowly replaced the phone back in its cradle, keeping my hand on the receiver as I began to mentally examine my contacts list …

My memory then chose this very inconvenient time to remind me of my hasty flight from home after Alanna and Daniel . . . after Alanna and Daniel were – were murdered.

I remembered speeding through Carmel, (and speeding in Carmel is never advisable, as trying to avoid tourists who are attempting to make sense of road signs in a language that is not their first is always a game of chance,) wondering who I could call for help. . .

Then I had called Nick.

And help me he did. He had calmed me down, reassured me that I wasn't responsible, and promised me safety. Then he'd welcomed me into his house with open arms . . .

Well I _was_ responsible. And I _wasn't_ safe.

Infernal irony that I should NOW have the gift of perfect recall, yet when it comes to remembering whose sleeping with who on "The Hills" My memory use to delight in failing me completely.

Although, to be fair, I don't even think "The Hills" characters—or indeed actors—could remember who was sleeping with who, either.

My hand slid off the phone receiver and I moved dejectedly over to one of the many black leather booths' and slid down, sighing heavily.

Staring blankly at the empty seat opposite me I placed my elbows on the table and leant forward to rest my chin in my hands.

This was shit.

Keith wanted to kill me? Mess with my head? Make me alienate everyone around me?

_He_ could come and pick me up.

I sighed again.

The bar was noisy and crowded, so no one really noticed me, which was good, as I barely noticed them either. I was more preoccupied with my memories.

All I could hear was the sound of the ocean waves crashing over each other and a voice . . . the deep voice that I loved, saying over and over again:

" . . . Look me in the eyes and tell me that you don't love me, that you never did. . ."

And then, like a bad movie that you're too lazy to get up and turn off – It carried on. I could hear a voice softly reply, choking out the words:

" . . . I don't love you."

My eyes drifted shut and suddenly I was on the beach, actually standing there, ON THE BEACH, and _they_ were right there in front of me.

I stood there, mesmerised by the scene in front of me, before I glanced down as the sea swilled around my feet. However my head shot back up and my gaze once more locked on the couple as I heard him repeat himself.

". . . Look me in the eyes and tell me that you don't love me, that you never did . . ."

I watched silently as the man—man? Or boy? . . . I wasn't sure—reached down and gently stroked the girls face with unsteady hands, watched as she cringed away from his touch.

Like he was _burning_ her.

When really, it was she who was burning him, torturing _him_.

I wanted to warn her to shut up. Not to lie. But it was like I was frozen in place, devoid of motion and unable to speak as I watched her slowly turn a tearstained face back to his and whisper, " . . . I don't love you . . ."

". . . I don't love you . . ."

"I don't love you . . ."

"I don't love you."

And suddenly I was saying the words along with her.

"I don't love you."

"I don't love you."

"I DON'T LOVE YOU!"

No . . .

NO!!!!!!!

Suddenly I was screaming, screaming, as again and again I heard those words, those terrible words mocking me . . .

"I don't love you."

"I don't love you."

"No . . . No, please," I—the bystander—had begun to cry. "Stop it . . . I didn't mean to . . ."

But he couldn't hear me.

I crumpled to the ground, tears running down my face, but unable to look away from the man on the beach as he reached out, again and again to the girl, only to get pushed away, again and _again_ . . .

"I'm sorry," I whimpered, "I didn't mean to . . . I had to!!! "

I tried to raise my voice so he could hear me, but no matter how loud I spoke, he wouldn't look away from her, he couldn't hear me . . .

"I love you, I do!!!" I tried to tell him. "I LOVE YOU!!!!"

But it was too late.

I was back at the bar.

He hadn't heard me.

And now . . . now he never would.

I clenched my fists together tightly and forced the ghostly echo of _their_ voices out of my mind. I'd created this little flashback (was THIS the great power that Paul had mentioned? An ability to see the PAST? Because if it was then he could KEEP his _sucktastic _power) and now I forced it to abate.

Eventually the sounds of their—OUR, I corrected myself forcibly.

OUR.

No good would come of me wandering around encouraging my own lunacy.

—OUR voices faded out and I was left alone.

Alone in a room crowded with people.

Once more the noise of the bar swelled around me as I buried my face in my hands. More and more tears spilled over, and I couldn't prevent the sobs that shook my body.

This was too much. This was cruel, I couldn't do it, and I couldn't TAKE this anymore.

This is what my so-called "Gift" had done. It had made me hurt everyone around me, made me distance myself from them in fear of their lives . . .

Is this what being a mediator meant? Was this the price of helping people?

Because I couldn't do it. I couldn't. I wasn't brave enough, I wasn't strong enough . . .

Then a sudden prickling at the back of my neck alerted me to a ghostly presence.

It wouldn't be Keith, of that I was certain. Keith wouldn't be considerate enough to just front up and kill me now, he'd rather let me wallow in misery for a while first, I knew.

It would be some other pathetic and impudent little ghost who believed that it was my life purpose to solve their every little problem, regardless of the trouble it caused for me . . .

Not now . . . please just not now . . . I just can't TAKE their INSIGNIFICANCE right now! I'm not cut out to play GANDALF to everyone's FRODO, OK????????

'Ghosts,' I growled, without shifting my gaze from my own hands as the slight tightening of the air indicated materialization.

I then started when I felt a cool hand grasp my own and someone slide into the seat beside me.

I looked over to see Stacy.

"Please don't kill me for coming," she said in greeting.

I didn't say anything.

"Your anger is _suffocating _us all," she explained. "It hurts." Perhaps she knew that I didn't really care much about her fellow ghosts right now as she said quickly, "But that's not why I came."

I took a deep breath and tried to control my anger. "Sorry Stacy, But I'm really not in a very helpful frame of mind right now," For old times sake, I attempted to keep my voice relatively civil, but I don't know how great that worked out. "So you can tell whatever gimp ghost sent you that NO, I cannot tell his grandma that he's sorry—"

"That's not why I came either. Melinda, please. . ." She trailed off, her voice imploring me to look at her.

I did, and found her to be looking at me with an expression of deepest sympathy in her brown eyes.

My face crumpled, and if I'd had any tears left at all, I probably would have begun to cry.

Wordlessly Stacy reached out and pulled me into a hug.

I rested my head on her shoulder and just stared unseeingly into the distance.

Stacy patted me gently on the back just like she'd done when we were little and I'd scraped my elbow when I'd fallen out of a tree. Mum hadn't been there so Stacy had kicked the tree for me and then stepped in to wipe away my tears.

With a fistful of leaves instead of a hanky, but still.

"Do you have any idea who to call?" Stacy asked gently, trying not to provoke me, I guessed.

"Not so much," I mumbled.

The bar was still really busy, so my talking to myself and leaning on—and being supported by—thin air went unnoticed. And I was too preoccupied to care if it didn't. What did it really matter if a bar full of strangers thought me crazy?

I was probably going to be dead soon anyway.

And on that cheery note . . .

"What about calling Suze?" Stacy suggested.

"No." I instantly dismissed that.

"Jesse?"

"No."

Aside from the obvious that mum and dad were already in too much danger from Keith—I WOULD NOT make that worse—they also would not let me go after Keith. No way. Therefore, they had to think that I was still safe with the Slaters.

"Wait, do you even know where you're going?" Stacy said perceptively, straightening up to look at me.

"No."

"You couldn't go back to the Slaters?"

"Not so much."

"Yeah," Stacy's voice was teasing, "well, I do think you've pretty much killed your welcome there. All you need to do now is run over someone's cat and the residents of Slater manorwould probably be happy to stone you to death."

Yeah, thanks Stace.

Stupidly, I felt my throat dry up and my eyes begin to water. I took a deep breath and tried to control myself.

Basically, I was THIS close . . .

"Maybe," Stacy continued, trying to cheer me up with—horrible—jokes, "You should just throw yourself under a car and save them the trouble."

"That's not a half bad idea." I muttered tiredly, sitting up and straightening my hair. "It would definitely piss Keith off that he hadn't got there first. And that's what's important here."

"You're not seriously—"

I sighed. "No, I'm not. If only it were that simple."

See, what I need is a plan that would ideally mean the demise of Keith-y and the safety of everyone else. Including myself.

But I'm not such an optimistic fool, and have accepted the possibility that I might not be so lucky.

But I will NOT let others die because of me.

Not anymore.

And that's when I pulled it together. I had a job to do. Time enough for depression later.

I then happened to glance up at Stacy's face and catch the look of terror I saw there.

"Relax, Stace." I reassured her referring to my earlier, suicidally inclined comments. "It was a joke."

I think . . .

"Melinda, I'm worried about you."

"Aren't we all?" I replied dryly, standing up and walking back over to the payphone. "I've decided that I'll ring Arabia. She can take me t-to-" I stuttered slightly, "-the Slaters . . ."

Is it pathetic that it hurts to say his name?

Yeah.

It's pathetic all right.

I picked up the receiver held it between my shoulder and my ear as I slid my change into the phone—then I paused.

"555-3291" Stacy supplied.

"Thanks." I dialled the number that Stacy had dictated.

She answered on the third ring. Which was a relief, because I wasn't sure if she'd pick up an unfamiliar number.

"Hello?"

"Hi."

"Melinda?"

"Yuh-huh."

"What's up? Where are you calling from?"

I laughed a little. "Um . . . Oi!" I called to the barman. "What's the name of this place?"

He gave me a strange look.

Probably thinking I was off my face and making a mental note not to serve me anymore.

"_Fountain's Years_," He called.

"Huh," I remarked absently. "That's a real shit name. Did you get that?' I asked Arabia.

"Yeah," she replied. "Melinda are you OK?"

"Oh yeah I'm fine—"

"Is Nick there?" she interrupted me. "Can you put him on please?"

Not really, no . . .

I thought fast "Oh—no, he's not, I just went for a walk and . . . my car battery went flat. " I laughed again. "It's pretty embarrassing really. So, uh, would you mind coming and giving me a lift back to Nicks?"

"You went for a WALK . . . and yet your CAR is broken?"

Oh.

"Yeah . . ."

"If you say so . . ."

"I do . . ."

"Fine. But how come," she grumbled, "that I'm the bitch call? Isn't that the boyfriend's job?"

I tightened my grip on the receiver.

I deserve an Oscar for this. Or at the VERY LEAST a Golden Globe.

"Oh, don't you DARE tell him." I faked a giggle. "I'd never hear the end of it." Then I swallowed tightly and carried on, trying to keep my voice cherry. "So will you come pick me up?"

"Yeah, sure, I know _Fountain's Years_; great crayfish. I'll be there in five minutes. Kay?"

"Thanks," I replied, infusing my voice with just the right amount of exuberance and embarrassment, "Bye." Then I hung up.

I don't know why it was that I hadn't told her the truth about Nick and myself. Ostensibly it was because I didn't want any of her overwhelming sympathy . . .

But if I were completely honest with myself . . . I would admit that there was a possibility that I was trying to repress what I'd just done. Block it out . . . pretend it had never happened . . . that Nick and I were still happy . . .

No.

NO.

That was finished

I BROKE UP WITH HIM.

AND I DID IT TO KEEP HIM ALIVE.

I did it . . . to keep him alive.

That's my job. Because like it or lump it, I'm a Mediator.

Father Dominic would be proud of me. Being all selfless and stuff.

. . . Pity no-one ever warned me what a major pain in the ass it was to be a martyr.

_**The Daughter Of**_

Arabia was three minutes over the five she had promised. I met her outside and returned her sunny smile.

Stacy farewelled me with a sad sort of smile and a wave, once she'd seen that I was safely in Arabia's car.

I greeted Arabia with a bubbly "Heya!" and perhaps I did do over do it a little on the cheeriness, but I don't think she noticed.

Arabia always drives with the radio ludicrously loud—so she can sing along, or, in most instances, rap along—so I was pretty much free to turn my attentions to my next problem.

Problems such as where the TRuck I was going to go now.

No way could I stay on with the Slaters. I dunno about Paul, but Chenaol might actually _kill_ me for hurting Nick. She really does love him . . .

And you NEVER piss off a model. They're hungry, you know?

--BY THE WAY, what is UP with Models' these days? Someone should really sit Nicole Richie down and tell her that it is definitely NOT cool to be able to fit into a ten year old girl's clothing.

Anyway. Going home wasn't an option either. I couldn't put Mum and Dad in that sort of danger.

Likewise with dad's not-so-hot idea about dumping me at the rectory. ASIDE from the obvious "Nun-that-hates-me" predicament, I would never risk Father Dom's welfare like that.

Sister Ernestine's I might, but no WAY Father Dom's.

To cut a long list short, I couldn't stay with anyone I didn't want dead.

. . . Wonder if Cindy's got a fold-out couch?

I'm joking, by the way.

Well, I'm trying to.

I never said that could be funny when under stress.

My only real option was to pay for accommodation . . . hopefully I wouldn't have need of it for long. All I needed was enough time to sort myself out (and lead Keithy away from my family and Nick,) and then I was off to go FAT ASS KICKING.

So … Accommodation it was. That dinky little motel on the outskirts of town would do, no-one would guess that I'd be there.

Everyone thinks I'm too high-maintenance for shit like that.

And I so am . . .

But just this once, I'd suck it up.

Thing was though, to achieve this, I'd need some help.

Because mum and dad would really not like my plan. Clearly, they had to think I was still at Paul and Chenaol's.

However _Paul and Chenaol_ would know that I was not at Paul and Chenaol's . . .

And I'm pretty sure that they would not lie for me—However much they might hate me for going all "You're not what I want" "I slept with Chad" "I don't love you" on their son's ass, they probably would not be very cool with me sticking a big fat "Kill Me" sign on my forehead.

. . . Not that that was ACTUALLY my plan for taking out Keith.

Yet. We'll have to see how desperate I get.

. . . yeah, again, I know. Not funny.

But I'm trying. I really am. I'm TRYING to keep going.

So, anyway; NO, Paul and Chenaol would not understand. Nor would they help me.

So I was in a bit of pickle really.

Then, as if Arabia had read my mind, she suddenly stopped rapping along with the radio—However the head bobbing did not cease—and without taking her eyes off the road, (God I wish I could multi-task like that,) she asked me, "So how are you and Nick?"

I took a deep breath and waited a couple of seconds for the slight feeling of nausea to pass (which it didn't, how could it?) before replying; "We're good."

I paused for a second as something occurred to me. Maybe I shouldn't let her believe that we were still together . . . quickly I dismissed this.

"Actually Arabia," I leaned forward and flicked off the radio. This was no time for her multi-tasking; her full attention was crucial. "I need your help."

She acquiesced instantly, not bothering with tedious questions. I was glad of this, because right now explanations were a luxury I could not afford to indulge in.

"You see . . . I'm working on a surprise for – him."

OH MY GOD MELINDA! A SURPRISE???? HOW FUCKING _PATHETIC_!!!!!!!!!

And Yeah, OK, I was still struggling a little to say his name out loud. Shut up, your mums fat.

"Nick?"

Inwardly I grimaced. "That's the one."

"A surprise?" She repeated, frowning.

"Um. Yeah. Sort of. It's complicated."

UNDERSTATEMENT.

"—Thing is," I continued, not pausing long enough to give her time to ask questions, "I'm scared he'll . . . Find it. Find the _surprise_. So I need to, uh, go somewhere to work on it in secret for a while. Like your place. Can I tell Nick I've gone to your place?"

She won't swallow this. She just won't. A three year old could tell that I'm lying.

And sure enough; "What's wrong with your house?' She said suspiciously. "And what do you mean "tell" Nick you've gone to my place? Where are you ACTUALLY going?"

"Oh, um . . . my place is no good. We're, Uh . . . redecorating. Mums redecorating."

I ignored the second part of her question.

"You're redecorating? But I spoke to Suze yesterday. She didn't say anything about redecorat—"

"DAMNIT ARABIA!!!!!!!" I yelled.

Then I had another idea.

A better one this time.

"Ok." I said, making my voice casual. "You love Scott right?"

"What's that got to do—"

"Just answer the question."

"Yeah," she sounded confused. Who could blame her? "Of course I do."

"But sometimes you just want to strangle him?"

She laughed at that. "Oh yeah. Last night he actually showed up and tried to initiate a make out session when "THE HILLS" was on."

"Idiot."

"Yeah." She agreed.

"Well, at the moment, I'm going to KILL –uh . . . kill Nick—"

It hurt less to say it fast.

"—If I have to live with him any longer . . ."

Yeah, this ones better. MUCH better that "a surprise."

That one was LAME.

Although it was pretty painful to pretend that HIM and me were still all happy couple-ish . . .

" . . . So the thing is," I continued, "I need some space. Except I can't go home because dad will be all _I told you so, that boy is no good for you,_ and I can't stand that. So PLEASE can you tell the Slaters that I'm staying with you?"

"Where will Suze and Jesse think you are?" There was no suspicion in her voice this time though, which was a good sign.

"They'll think I'm still at the Slaters."

"And where will you actually be?" Arabia asked shrewdly.

Lie Melinda!

LIE!

" . . . I'm going out of town for a few days. Cousin of mine in . . . San Francisco."

"Cool."

"Yeah. Cool. So . . . will you help me?'

"Sure, sounds like fun. Almost like being a secret agent."

Well if that's what floats your boat . . .

Right now, lets go over the plan one more time, just so I don't get confused:

I'm going to a hotel.

Arabia thinks I'm in San Francisco.

Slaters' think I'm at Arabia's.

Parents' think I'm at Slater's.

Of course I do know that this is all going to blow up in my face pretty quickly. Duh. I'm not a complete idiot. But hopefully it will buy me enough time to do what I need to do.

Then all that's left is if I CAN pull off what it is that I need to do.

If not . . .

Well, lets not go getting all emo again.

I'm not a very good cool emo. Last time I gave serious consideration to topping myself.

Who KNOWS what I'd do second time around.

That's when we pulled up in Nick's driveway.

"Ok," I said quickly, leaning over to give Arabia a well earned hug. "Thank you, I'll catch you—" I almost chocked on the next word, "—Later!"

I hope.

"Ok, Buh Bye! I'll see you when you get back from your cousins!"

Yeah, Ok.

Arabia blew me an air kiss and then accelerated down the Slater's drive and turned out onto the road with one last wave at me.

I stood on the front door step for a second, then, taking a shady look around, I darted off back down the steps and ducked around to the back door.

I don't know how many of you have ever tried to sneak into a mansion, but let me tell you . . . its no piece of pie.

_**The Daughter Of**_

OK. I'm in.

. . . You know, the whole breaking and entering thing would be so _cool_ if the circumstances were a little different.

I'm just saying.

"Thanks Aida," I murmured to the maid who had let me in.

Aida? Remember her? You know, the emo looking one who was tipping cigarette ash into Paul's mineral water when we first met?

Yeah. Myself I think she let me in because she was hoping I'd rob the place.

Fat chance. Again. Thieves' don't wear Trelise Cooper. I won't say it again.

Without further unnecessary preamble I made my way up the twisty staircase and headed towards the western wing of the house, where the room with all my stuff was.

A part of me—quite a large part too—said that it was stupid to tempt fate by coming back here. It was just _stuff. _

But another part of me retorted forcefully; HELLO. Vintage Dolce and Gabbana sunglasses in there!!!!! They're worth at LEAST as much as Chenaol's boobs!!!

. . . Not that I make a habit of asking models how much their boob jobs cost.

The latter argument won, needless to say.

Dolce and Gabbana at stake here people.

Dolce and Gabbana.

You would have done the same.

I'd just gotten to the door of the room I had been staying in when it all went terribly wrong.

I heard noises through the door and I paused with my hand on the doorknob.

Footsteps?

WTF?

I pushed the door open just a crack and peeped through.

Nick . . .?

What in the name of erectile dysfunction was he _doing_ in there?

Silently, I watched as he sat down at the head of what was once my bed and reach over to press a button on the CD player that rested on the bedside cabinet.

Noise flowed out, and I instantly recocnised the artist.

"_My Chemical Romance: Welcome to the Black Parade_". I'd WONDEREDwhat I'd done with that CD. Now I remember, I was listening to it just last night.

Seems like an entire age ago.

A much happier age, needless to say.

Then I recognised the song that Nick was playing.

"_I don't love you" _

I began to shake, and my grip on the door tightened for support.

No . . .

_**When you go  
Don't ever think I'll make you try to stay  
And maybe when you get back  
I'll be off to find another way**_

When after all this time that you still owe  
You're still the good-for-nothing I don't know  
So take your gloves and get out  
Better get out  
While you can  


This wasn't RIGHT. This was _beyond_ human endurance.

_**When you go  
Would you even turn to say  
"I don't love you  
Like I did  
Yesterday"**_

Sometimes I cry so hard from pleading  
So sick and tired of all the needless beating  
But baby when they knock you  
Down and out  
It's where you oughta stay  


Nick was unnaturally still, and I knew that the irony of the song had not escaped him.

Like it could.

A singing telegram would have been more subtle.

_**And after all the blood that you still owe  
Another dollar's just another blow  
**_

I wished more than anything that I could go in there and comfort him, and tell him that it wasn't true, I DID love him, but it wasn't SAFE for me to love him . . .

Yet I knew that I could never tell him the truth.

So just like in that pub, I was just forced to stand in silence and watch the agony in front of me without being able to do anything.

Helpless, AGAIN.

_**So fix your eyes and get up  
Better get up  
While you can  
Whoa, whooa**_

When you go  
Would you even turn to say  
"I don't love you  
Like I did  
Yesterday"

Well come on, come on  


His breathing had become more laboured, and I could knew that he was fighting his temper.

This was CRUEL.

And it's my fault . . .

I could have spared him this.

_Was the alternative really that much worse?_

_**When you go  
Would you have the guts to say  
"I don't love you  
Like I loved you . . .  
YESTERDAY!!!!"**_

Yesterday. A forgotten day . . . a day where a happy ending seemed like a possible outcome . . .

_**I don't love you  
Like I loved you  
Yesterday**_

I had to stop this. The concequences didn't matter. KEITH didn't matter. I just couldn't continue to do this to him.

I didn't expect him to forgive me, but ANYTHING had to be better than this.

My mind was made up and my path decided on, I was just about to open the door fully and enter the room when something stopped me.

_**I don't love you  
Like I loved you  
Yesterday . . .**_

I had a vision.

I was back in the Mission Courtyard. In my arms I held Brian's lifeless body, his broken neck allowing his head to loll repulsively.

Desolately I raised a hand and smoothed Brian's hair away from his face so I could say goodbye properly . . .

But suddenly it wasn't Brian who I held.

I let out a yell of horror.

It was Nick . . .

Nick was dead.

His flesh was bloated and his skin was sickly pale, with a grey tinge that, even as I watched, was slowly creeping over his skin, contaminating it . . .

His body in my arms was rigid and brittle, yet he was heavier than he'd been in life . . .

"Dead weight . . ." a snide voice supplied.

I ignored it and began to frantically search for a pulse. Maybe he was OK, maybe he was just – just – pretending . . .

Then I noticed his eyes.

And I knew the truth.

His eyes weren't the intense blue I remembered . . . instead – instead they were . . . _BLACK . . ._

Entirely black, no iris', no pupils, no whites . . .

I stared at horror at Nick as he decayed in my embrace.

His eyes stared back at me, dark and empty . . .

I thought I was going to vomit.

Then I heard it.

"It's you're fault Melinda . . ." Keith's voice whispered in my ear, gloating. "You CHOSE to kill him . . ."

"No I didn't . . ." I mumbled, talking more to myself than that fuckwad of a ghost. "I didn't . . . he's alive. HE IS ALIVE!"

And then with a jolt I was back in the corridor at the Slater's home. And Nick was alive and well right behind the door I was still gripping tightly.

I noticed then that my knuckles were brilliant white, and taking a deep breath, I slowly forced my hands to unclench.

That was another vision, right there. Of that I was completely convinced.

I think I'd just been spying on what _could be_ the future.

It hadn't happened yet.

And if I had my say, it never would. NEVER.

--What was it they alway say in that book with the hot vampires? "The future is subjective."

Well that's it. The future is subjective.

Obviously I'd just had an insider's preview of Keith's future plans for Nick.

. . . I felt like throwing up as a result.

So I can't walk through this door right now and talk to Nick. Instead I have to make it excruciatingly clear to EVERYONE that he means nothing to me.

Absolutely nothing.

Certainly nothing worth killing.

Because I would never let him die, not like that.

Not because of me.

Then all of a sudden I heard a violent smashing sound that, I'll admit it, made me jump.

It was the sound of smashing glass. And it had come from inside the room.

I pushed the door open a fraction more and peered in.

. . . Oh. Seems Nick came up with a solution for shutting up Gerard Way.

He'd wrenched the CD player out from the wall (tearing the cord and inducing a whole shower of bright blue-white sparks, I might add,) and thrown it at the mirror.

It completely shattered.

. . .. ya think he's mad at me?

The electricity from the cord cracked and sparked and eventually ignited, beginning to consume the wooden Bureau that had supported the mirror.

Nick barely batted an eyelid.

He just stared intensely at the fire that was beginning to creep up the wall, like he was egging it on . . .

There was something strange about this fire. I couldn't quite put my finger on it.

Instead of puzzling over this, I just stood there transfixed by the twisting, stretching orange flames as the fire grew and grew (almost doubling in size every few seconds). The fire leant closer and closer towards Nick who still did not move, just kept doing the Tyra-Banks-FEIRCE-eyes thing at the flames.

I was unable to tear my eyes away from the burning destruction taking place right in front of me. I felt dawn to the beauty of them. Slowly, I opened the door and began to walk towards the searing heat.

I am ashamed to admit that I didn't snap out of it until I was gently pushed aside as Paul Slater moved past me—Don't tell me. The hotshot lawyer spends his spare time volunteer fire fighting—and walked into the room.

What happened next was EVEN FUCKING STRANGER.

Paul merely walked up to his son and put his hand on his shoulder, and then turned his OWN gaze to the roaring blaze.

Almost instantly they died.

No.

Not even died.

Just DISAPPEARED.

And what was STRANGER STILL???????

The room was untouched.

It was perfect as it had been before the fire. Nothing was burnt, there was smoke, no ashes . . .

Nothing except the cracked CD player and shattered mirror.

It was like the fire had never existed.

Ok. Now ether I'm ON something, (possible. Who KNOWS what was in that KFC that I was forced to eat earlier today,) or that was some SERIOUSLY WHACKED OUT SHIT.

Nick started advancing towards the door, murderous expression still in place and I cringed. There wasn't time to hide, and I couldn't think of a good explanation . . .

"_Oh, Me? Doing here? Nothing. I'm uh . . . Cleaning. Yeah. Cleaning. Haha . . .?"_

But he strode angrily right past me! I don't think he even saw me! Despite the fact that he WALKED RIGHT PAST ME, I was completely convinced that he had not in any way noticed my presence.

Boy he musta been MAD . . .

A little out of his mind, even.

I didn't have much time to dwell on this, however, as Paul called out to me. "Melinda? You can come in."

. . . but do I really want to, Paul? Honestly? You're a fire controlling FREAK OF NATURE.

"Um. Hi." I said lamely, as I stepped through the door and into the room.

"Hello." Paul said wryly.

I stood there awkwardly for a second, unable to resist from turning to stare at the unmarked wall, that only seconds earlier had been crawling with flames.

"You came to collect your belongings,, I believe?"

"Uh . . ." I tore my eyes away from the wall. "Yeah. Yeah, I did." Quickly I walked to the closet and tugged down my black oversize suitcase. I then began to scoot around the room, haphazardly throwing my stuff in the rough direction of my suitcase.

I could feel Pauls eyes on me, however, and after only a few minutes of this skin crawling sensation, I couldn't take it anymore.

"So . . ." I said hesitantly. "How about this weather, eh?"

"Delightful," Paul laughed. "So you finally decided to end things with him, did you?"

HEY! THAT IS NOT SMALL TALK!

"What do you mean "FINALLY DECIDED"?" I snapped.

"Come now Melinda," Paul cajoled, retrieving my brush as I overshot the suitcase and it landed on the floor. Then he chucked it in the suitcase. "Noble little martyr like yourself? Ghostie killing off the ones you _love_?" his enunciation was deliberate. "It was only a matter of time."

I didn't know what to say to this, so I ignored him.

He persisted. "Where are you going to go Melinda?"

I ignored this too.

"Please tell me where you intend to go."

Still, I ignored him.

"Don't be stupid, we can help you—"

That's strange. I really thought he'd want to hang me after what I did to his son. But here he is trying to HELP me?

Random.

"—Come on Melinda," and his expression was earnest. "Please don't do something stupid just because you believe it's your _duty_._" _He sneered the word. "It's not you're responsibility—"

"I'm going to Arabia's." I cut him off, lying breezily.

I could tell by his expression that he wasn't quite sure wether to believe me or not, but had decided not to pursue it. Instead he decided on another approach.

"You saw the fire, didn't you?"

"Yes." I answered frankly, finishing off my wardrobe and starting on the drawers. "What the hell was it?"

He sighed heavily.

"Supernatural flames. A Shifter trick."

I dropped the t-shirt that I was holding.

"Say that again?" I commanded, slowly turning around to face him.

"Come on Melinda. Didn't you notice something strange about the flames?"

Um, YES.

They started with some STARING.

They got real big real fast.

I wanted to WALK INTO THEM.

They STOPPED with some staring.

They left no damage.

And now that I thought about it . . .

There was never any smoke either.

He grinned a little at my silence. "Yeah. Didn't you know that Shifters are good with fire? What _has_ the Jolly Rancher been teaching you?"

What the fuck was a Jolly Rancher?

"I thought . . ." I said slowly, "That Nick was a just a mediator."

"Yes . . ." Slater wore the hint of a smile. "But he was a really pissed off mediator."

"So, you're saying . . ."

"That my charming son was pissed off enough at you to try and burn the house down with some supernatural fire? Yes. That you also have the potential to burn buildings down with the same supernatural fire? Yes."

"How?" I breathed.

"Depends." He answered. Immediately I saw where this was going. "What do you intend to do after you finish here?"

His words prompted me to resume throwing my belongings at my suitcase.

"I think you should know," I said by way of answer, "That I don't really _need_ you to tell me this stuff. I can just google it."

"Google." He snorted, expressing his contempt. "What is it with you kids and bloody _google_?"

I scooped up all my underwear and carted it over to the suitcase to tuck them all in amongst all my other stuff—no way was I gonna chuck my knickers about the room with Paul there.

How EMBARRASSING.

Then that was it. I was finished.

There was nothing else to keep me here.

With one last brief look about the room—my eyes lingered for a split second on the wall which had been a flaming inferno a little while ago, and now stood completely unmarked—I hoisted my suitcase up into my grip and then promptly dropped it.

I'd forgotten what a heavy packer I was.

Paul laughed at me, and then swooped down to pick the suitcase up without a problem.

Slaters. They're all show-offs.

Oh. Oh fan-fucking-tastic. For what must be the BILLIONTH time today, here come the tears.

"Paul," I said, keeping my eyes locked on my suitcase as I reached out to take it from him. I'd probably give myself a haemorrhage trying to carry it, but what else could I do? "Um. . ."

What does one say on occasions such as this?

Somehow sorry doesn't even begin to cover it.

Yet . . .

"I'm so sorry." I whispered, not adverting my eyes from the handle of my suitcase as he relinquished possession of it to me . . . My arm just about popped out of its socket, by the way.

"Aw, Melinda," He grumbled. "Will you jab me in the eye if I hug you?"

" . . . What?"

"Nevermind." He said. And then hugged me.

I tensed slightly, expecting his hugging me to be too weird for words, but it wasn't, actually.

His hold was comforting, and felt familiar.

Then I realized why this was.

It was almost like being hugged by Nick, back in the old days. Only without the sexual undertones—because that _would_ have been weird.

It was then, when I was standing there, thinking only of him, of Nick, that I made my big mistake.

I looked up into Paul's eyes.

. . . And saw Nick's ice blue eyes staring back at me.

I was cruelly reminded of Nick's lifeless black eyes in my earlier vision. My body went rigid.

I'm sure Paul could feel me start to treble slightly, and he pulled back and looked at me, a worried expression on his face.

My eyes locked on his, I watched as I imagined that familiar stare growing dark and lifeless . . .

My expression horrified, I ripped myself out of Paul's grasp and tore over to the bedroom door, pulling it open and rushing down those stairs without a word of explanation.

I just kept hurrying towards the front door, the unbearable weight of my suitcase long forgotten.

"MELINDA, WAIT!!!!" I heard Paul yell.

But I was already in the front entrance hall.

I almost made it right to the front door when she stopped me.

Aida.

I let out an involuntary shriek.

She just came outta NOWHERE!!!!!!!!!!

Wait.

. . . she just came outta nowhere . . .

Sure enough, closer inspection of Aida revealed the signature glow of the Undead.

"What the Fuuuuuuuck?" I asked myself.

"Slow, aren't you?" She commented.

"MINIONS???" I screamed back up in the direction of the staircase, knowing that Paul would soon pop into view. "You have ghostly MINIONS to do your bidding?"

Aida sighed. "I killed someone. Two someones' really. Saint Paulie up there decided to take the law into his own hands. Hence, servitude."

. . . that would be about the longest speech I'd ever heard her make.

Nevertheless, after hearing that she killed a couple people, I took a small step back.

She noticed, and grinned.

I tried for a quick lie.

Because she might have been thin—like size zero thin—but she had all sorts of ghostly powers on her side, and I knew without a doubt that she could kick my ass.

"Aida. Come on. I can't take anymore of this."

And it was true. I felt like I was going to collapse from sheer emotional exhaustion. I really could not take anymore.

"Want to piss him off? Let me walk right past you."

"Yes . . . That was what I was thinking." And she sidestepped me neatly, unobstructing my path to the door.

I exhaled tiredly. "Thanks,"

"Welcome."

Now time to get the fuck out of here.

"Melinda!" called Slater, now at the bottom of the stairs. I spun around to face him, but deliberately kept my eyes completely averted from his face. I was truly terrified of what could happen if I looked at him.

"You forgot something!" He threw my bag at me.

It was the Louis Vutton bag that I had left on the beach.

Nick . . . Nick must have brought it back here.

I reached out and just managed to snatch the bag by the tan straps.

"Chenaol and I want Arabia's number." Slater said then, getting all parental. "I assume Nick will have it?"

"Yup!" I said, falsely bright, just keen to get the fuck out of there.

"We'll call often, I assume that won't be a problem?"

"Nope!"

Ok . . . just say goodbye . . .

"Ok, then. You can go. Bye."

GOD MUST HAVE DECIDED NOT TO HATE ME AFTER ALL.

"Bye!" I called as I slipped out the door and fumbled in my handbag for my keys. Finding them and unlocking my car door, I hauled my suitcase in the vehicle and slamming the door shut.

I put my key in the ignition and turned it with a jerk before I stopped my foot down on the accelerator and sped away from the Slater Mannor.

For good.

_**The Daughter Of**_

You know, accommodation in Carmel-by-the-Sea is not exactly cheap.

Here _I_ was paying for this room with my College tuition savings.

Shh. Don't tell daddy.

--Well its not like I'll NEED College if I'm _dead_.

And if I DID actually end up making it through all of this, hopefully mummy and daddy would be so thrilled to have their precious daughter back safe and sound that they wouldn't notice the mysterious disappearance of a couple thousand dollars . . .

Yeah right.

There's one for a Tui billboard.

My point was, that as much as I was paying for this room, you'd think they wouldn't be so meticulous about sending the hotel staff up to check on me every twenty bloody minutes.

OK, YES I am a minor. But I'm not a freaking ALIEN!!!!!! You don't need to keep WATCHING ME!!!!! I WILL NOT TRASH THE PLACE!!!!!!!

Gawd.

Way to earn yourselves a _harassment_ lawsuit guys. Really. Thumbs up.

In other news . . .

My stay at the hotel has been all right, I 'spose. For the first day or two I was SO bored. NO SingStar . . . NO chance of a "The Hills" marathon to TiVo . . . Not even any _colouring books_.

Suckville really.

Musta been Keith's new strategy. BORING me to death.

For a while there, it was _definitely_ working.

. . . I knew EXACTLY who was with who on "The Young and the Restless."

. . . I knew that the bathroom floor was comprised of exactly 30525 grey tiles.

. . . I knew that there were two hotel employee's who regularly engaged in sexual activities in the linen closet beside my room.

. . . Also, that hotel walls are not all that thick . . .

To sum up: isolation? Not for me.

But then I kinda got my act together and instead passed my days Googling hocus pocus stuff that might help me get rid of Keith.

I'd told Paul that I could figure this stuff out.

And I was adamant that I would.

Although I will conceed that sometimes I do get bored and resume counting floor tiles and watching "The Young and the Restless".

But I'm only human.

I've found _some_ interesting stuff on "Shamianism." But mostly my Internet trawls have just presented me with page after page of utterly unhelpful speculation:

Like the fact that ancient tribal Shamans used to use Cannabis to _heal_ their villagers.

--Cool, let get high.

And that there is apparently a "Trickster" aspect to each shaman's "Personique."

--So we all have our inner Voldemort. Good to know.

Also some Shamans become corrupted by power.

--Really? I didn't notice.

And there's a "Shaman" Character in Dungeons and Dragons.

--Wouldn't know, myself.

There was a heap of shit on healing people too. That didn't really help me much either. SORRY, I DON'T REALLY WANT TO KNOW HOW TO DO A SPIRITUAL HEALING DANCE. I mean, I want to KILL someone here, not HEAL them.

Sorry, but it's the truth.

But in that department—the researching how to kill someone—I wasn't having so much luck with.

I guess blogging about how to exorcise your friends is sort of frowned upon.

So after HOURS of crap surfing, I had found this, one, solitary sentence that gave me hope.

"_An ability to harness energy and direct it at the outside world.__"_

Yeah, OK, it was nothing GROUND BREAKING, but I found it illuminating all the same. From it I inferred that if I was really lucky I could just screw my eyes up real tight and CONCENTRATE on what I wanted.

I mean, it certainly wouldn't be the first time I'd made really weird stuff happen by JUST CLOSING MY EYES.

I mean, EXAMPLE NUMBER ONE: that thing at the hospital, where I'd _seen_ that weird silver cord thing connecting mum and dad.

EXAMPLE NUMBER TWO: When I managed to _transport_ myself to Shadowland (or "The Astral Plane" or "the Spirit World" or whatever else you prefer,) when Keith crashed Nick's car—and I've managed _this _little trick a few times now.

EXAMPLE NUMBER THREE: When I'd given myself front row seats to the "Mum and Dad getting freaky in mum's old room" show.

AND EXAMPLE NUMBER FOUR: When I'd turned myself into a THIRD PERSON in order to witness _myself_ breaking up with Nick. Over and over again.

And FURTHER PROOF TO SUPPORT MY THEORY: Nick's little bonfire that he's created in the Slater Manor _simply by getting really really mad _and WILLING it to happen!

So THEN I got the shit hot idea that I too could do all sortsa cool stuff with my mind, maybe even like moving stuff!

_Just like_ Magneto off X-MEN!!!!!!!!!!!!!

. . . Did not work.

But I did manage to break a lamp!

Although, in the heat of the moment, I'm not sure wether it was my mind that smashed the lamp to the floor, or my arm, in a fit of random clumsiness.

Meh. A minor Detail.

I still had to pay for the lamp.

But I refuse to give up. Which is why, right now, even though its six in the morning—Six! I know!—I am sitting faithfully in front of my computer screen doing RESEARCH..

Although I would like to point out that researching is actually nowhere near as exciting in real life as they make it seem on CSI.

Ohh, this site looks promising:

"Troiyt and Shamanism in Dialogue."

I clicked it. And then . . .

WHAT???? WHAT? NO!!!!!!!!!!! FUCK NO!!!!!!!!

"Error, System failure."

SHIT!!!!! Shit shitty McShit shit . . .!

My computer screen began to flicker and fade, and then all I was left with was a blank screen.

I jabbed repeatedly at the ON button.

Nothing.

I just killed my laptop.

No biggie, right?

I mean, I only need it to try and fins something that might SAVE MY LIFE.

. . . I am so screwed.

I was on to SOMETHING there, I'm certain!!!!!!

And NOW WHAT???

I highly doubted that I was going to be able to find answers to all my ghostly problems on the home shopping channel, (which was what else I had been passing my time doing).

"I'm Fifty years old and have a Bowflex body!"

No. You're Sixty years old and have a very talented plastic surgeon.

This was so FRUSTRATING!!!!!!!!!

Now I had nothing. No leads, no hope, no information . . . nothing.

Thanks for that Microsoft. Thanks a bloody lot. I am going to send you a really ANGRY LETTER!

Hang on. Wait a second.

But I DO have a lead . . .

I have Mrs Grey.

She'd said something to me about a red mustang convertible the night that Alanna and Daniel were killed . . . I hadn't really been concentrating on it as much of a lead because A) it was so circumstantial, and B) It would be EXCRUCIATINGLY challenging to attempt to follow up.

But it was all I had.

I got up from the hotel desk and grabbed a handbag, throwing a few essentials into it, then I snatched my car keys up, let myself out of the hotel room and headed off own the corridor.

To be honest, I didn't know if my visit would achieve anything at all. But I had to try.

_Please, _I prayed silently, _please me find something . . ._

If only I had known then exactly what it was that I was to find at Mrs Greys.

I never would have bothered getting out of bed.

_**Merry Christmas!**_


	19. im sorry it had to come to this

Aw

**Aw. Poor dears.**

**If you missed me, you shoulda just SAID so. In your review. ((evil grin))**

**Well I can't quite pretend that I have a completed chapter here for you. I put it down to a lack of inspirational reviews.**

**Basically . . . You want this next chapter? Review and tell me so.**

**And trust me. You want it.**

**Also just so you know I do indeed accept bribes. Lol. Kidding. Sort of.**

**But hang on! Before ya'll go getting your panties in a knot, I'm not going to be _totally_ unreasonable.**

**I'll inspire YOU a little first.**

**Because after all. My writing is a reciprocal kinda thing.**

**All the best stuff is. Lol.**

**Now I have some truly THRILLING stuff coming up for you.**

**Some of its a little naughty…..**

'Yeah,' agreed another of the guys, talking directly to one of his mates now. This ones name was . . . Sam? Maybe? I don't really know. 'I think I like Melinda drunk too. '

'I think Melinda should sit the fuck down,' Scott instructed me frowning slightly.

Funny, I've never seen Scott serious.

Or maybe I've just never taken him seriously.

'You can sit here Melinda,' Rhys grinned, indicating to his lap.

'Face down?' I enquired politely.

They roared with laugher.

'Yeah . . .' Rhys drawled to his mates. 'She's gagging for it . . .'

The smoke from his cigarette danced around me, the scent heavy and disorientating . . .

Cool.

'Hey, feel like coming for a walk with me Melinda?' Rhys asked.

Good euphemism there Rhysie. By walk you mean _sex in the pool shed_, right?

Nevertheless . . .

I smiled at him, grabbing my bottle and sculling the rest of it back in one go. 'Sure!'

**And of course Nick's there too . . .**

I glanced up and found myself staring directly into the penetrating ice blue stare of Nick Slater. He stared openly at me, blatantly ignoring his slut, who had begun to kiss her way down his throat.

I shivered, and found myself unable to look away from Nick's intense stare.

What surprised me was that he wasn't actually looking all that shit hot. He had dark shadows under his eyes and heavy creases between his eyebrows.

Although that could have been because his slut had just sucked out one of his fillings or something.

I dunno.

I deliberately broke eye contact and turned back to Chad. 'Was it just me,' I said to Chad brightly, 'Or does Nick look just a little bit homicidal?'

**A ****little suggestive as well . . .**

'Oh FUKING HELL,' I said, exasperated at how SLOWLY he was moving.

So I grabbed him by the back of the neck and pulled his mouth to mine.

Felt weird.

Not BAD, but . . . weird.

Things got WEIRDER still as he slid his hands slid down my neck and over my shoulders and—and—

OUCH!

Ease up would you? They're not made of fucking PLAY-DOUGH.

**And crazy, naturally . . .**

I clapped my hands. 'Haha. Cool. You're in the pool!!' Then I started giggling. Because it RHYMED. DUH.

'_You _can shut the fuck up,' he growled in my direction.

'Who pissed in your cornflakes?' I challenged. 'And where's your SLUT?"

This was the first I'd seen him without HER oozing off him all night.

Bet she was off fucking his brother.

Wait. He doesn't have a brother.

Ok, his STEP-MUM then.

Although, I don't really know how that WORKS. Lesbian sex. I mean NEITHER PARTY HAS A PENIS! So what gives?

**And some more crazy . . .**

I was standing there, swinging over the gate and offering commentary when we were interrupted by an angry voice.

'OI! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU FUCKWADS' DOING?'

Shit! It's Scott! Hide Melinda, HIDE!!

I scrambled to my feet and tried to run.

The outcome of this action was enough to convince me that I might have been just that LITTLE bit totally and utterly fucked . . .

Problem was balance. It caught up to me in the end, as I knew it would.

You see, I really wasn't capable of standing without help.

Lots of help, actually.

I stumbled instantly and made it JUST through the pool gate before my balance got a little suss. I lurched forward, stumbling as my shoes slid on the wet grass . . .

To cut a long story short, I ended up head down ass up in the garden.

Dinky, right?

**And some MORE . . .**

Then he slung an arm around me and squeezed me into him. 'Come on. Let's get you a drink.'

'Yes,' I replied sarcastically, 'because alcohol has done such a bang up job of fixing the rest of the world's problems.'

Hey, you! Ethiopian orphan! Cheer up you don't need _food_! Here, have a _drink_. Or better yet, HERE, have some COCAINE.

Yeah, you like that . . .

**And just when you thought I was done with the crazy, there is MORE . . .**

"Hey, you wanna come over and see Rhys and them with me?' scott interrupted me.

I absentmindedly took another long swallow as I deliberated. 'Boys?' I asked, lowering the bottle and dragging a hand over my mouth.

Scott gave me a look that clearly conveyed his opinion on my mental health. "God you can be a freak sometimes Melinda,"

Boy; was he ever onto something there.

'Yeah, "Boys". Sort of like c_hicks_, but with COCKS.'

**But lets not forget the scary bits . . .**

Instead he said: "Yeah . . . Guess you'll never know will you?"

What I'm REALLY proud of is that when he said this, instead of COLLAPSING or anything _gay_ like that, I managed to put on a bored voice and drawl; 'I assume that's another one of your fun little death threats then?'

"Yes!"

. . Great. Just great. Do I get, like, some points or something for guessing right? Maybe a gold star?

No?

FUCK YOU THEN.

You know mate, even if you WEREN'T a fucked-in-the-head murdering rapist with _sweat patches_ I _STILL_ wouldn't like you.

Yeah. HOW YOU LIKE _THEM_ COOKIES BITCH?? I'M NOT SCARDA YOU!! I'D TOTALLY SAY THIS ALL OUT LOUD!!

. . . But I just don't feel like it right now.

**A few of them . . .**

"When will you fucking learn," He snarled at me, all traces of smugness eradicated from his features. "When I tell you to do something, you fucking DO IT!!"

This last part was screamed in my face.

And the spit did NOT even feature on my top five list of most pressing problems right now.

YEAH. THAT'S HOW FUCKING SCREWED I WAS.

Keith looked me directly in the eyes and smiled gently as he slowly began to tighten his hold on my neck.

My eyes were huge, as my lungs began to _burn _from lack of oxygen . . .

**But that's not it. Hell no. Those were just the scary bits. I also have some bone-chillingly DISTURBING bits too . . .**

I was terrified.

Someone . . . someone _help me . . . _

He smiled at me and rotated his wrist behind his back. My eyes flew to his arm, watching his movements and wondering, without truly wanting to know, what he was holding.

I cringed, and lowered my head; incapable, literally incapable of looking this murderer in the eye.

I shivering as I felt his gaze on me.

I began to cry. And not quietly either. "Please . . ." I blubbered, still staring at my knees. "_Please_ . . ."

He pretended to consider it. "Hmm . . . _Nah_."

I can't pretend I'm not scared of death. I really, REALLY am. But what scares me more than death . . . is pain.

And the only thing I could think of right then, was that movie, "The Bank Job" with that guy from "Transporter" in it. In it the baddies steal this guys down into a vault, and then torture him with a blow torch to get him to tell them where his friend is.

And—

And all I see in my mind was an image of me lying on this concrete floor with my—

With my skin all melted and pooling to the concrete floor.

I would be left here.

And my skin would cool and set on the . . . cold concrete . . .

"Look at me Melinda." He whispered.

I slowly raised my head and looked into the face of . . . .

**And that's all you get.**

**Dun dun dun.**

**So. I think you know by now what to do.**

**Love and SMOOCHES!**

**The-decidedly-greedy Mariah**


	20. Rotisserie Style

Here's the thing about wide-open front doors

**Ok, first?**

**SHUT-UP!!**

**Just because there's been no terrible SMUT lately, does not mean my story is CRAPPY!!**

**. . . You're MOTHER was crappy. **

**Last night.**

**So SUCK ON THAT!**

**Nevertheless, here, have a chapter. While there are not any romantic declarations in this one (and I fail to understand why you all seem to like those,) there is, in my typically big-headed opinion, a relative amount of artistic value to this chapter.**

**. . . All I wanted was my story to have a few pathos.**

_**SORR-Y! **_

Rotisserie Style

Here's the thing about wide-open front doors.

. . . Either you're expected, or there's no one left alive to close them.

Mrs Grey's front door was wide open.

Pushing all non-cheery thoughts to the back of my head, I sucked in a deep breath and pushed the door of my little rental car shut. Its slam was louder than I'd anticipated, making me jump.

Shame, I know.

And you know what? I felt like GOLDILOCKS. Defiantly sneaking somewhere I knew I shouldn't, and scared of what I might find, yet unable to resist.

In hindsight, I really should have remembered what a dumb broad Goldilocks was.

I began up the pebbled pathway (pebbled pathway's hate heels, and I was wearing Steve Madden, which was a real bitch,) towards the wide open and perfectly still front door of Mrs Greys home.

I didn't let myself look to the left, and over the pine trees where I knew I could see the top of my home.

I'm not _that_ much of a masochist.

Instead I kept my eyes firmly locked on Mrs Greys door as I stepped over the terracotta pieces of a broken potplant that was scattered over the path.

. . . Please tell me a cat broke that, I thought fervently to myself.

. . . And please tell me that Mrs Grey just . . . _forgot_ to close her door, or something dumb like that.

My heel twisted a little on the pebbles, and I stumbled a little, but I didn't pause as I reached the doorstep, Even though my shoes were about 200 a pop.

Because I couldn't help it. I was WORRIED.

Mrs Grey is, lets face it, annoying. She's like the Miss Marple of Carmel-by-the-Sea. And while it may have been true that everyone that met Miss Marple may have just wanted to punch her in the ovaries for being so freaking nosy, Miss Marple NEVER forgot to shut—and lock—her doors.

So _yeah_, I was DAMN worried.

I tentatively reached out and pressed the gold door buzzer, trying to avoid looking down the gaping hallway.

No response.

"Mrs Grey . . .? You there?"

I was so badly hoping for a cheery "Yes Melinda, dear, here I am, safe and sound! Now have some Ovaltine!".

But I really shouldn't have been surprise that there was no response. Unless you count that the silence seemed to get LOUDER.

I then surpassed worry, and begin to panic.

"MRS GREY!"

. . . _Shit._

I took a careful step inside her house and began down the hallway.

Something was really . . . something was . . .

Firstly, there was the open door. Secondly, everything was just too quiet. There was no old people television shows playing in the background (no Coronation Street, or Family Fued), no kettle boiling (for the Ovaltine, of course), No hundred CATS yowling . . .

This was NOT my idea of a good and well old lady's home.

The only sounds in the house were the sounds of my own steps as I clipped down the hallway and came to a stop at the door of what I remembered to be Mrs Grey's living room. I tentatively pushed open the door, expecting the worst . . .

. . . horrifying images of all the creative ways Keith could possibly have killed an old woman by running flashing through my mind . . .

But the room was eerily still, and meticulously neat as I remembered.

Yet this still did nothing to ease the horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach. Quickly I began to search the house. Eventually, after having checked two bedrooms, a kitchen, a bathroom and a laundry room . . . I could find no conclusion other than that I was over-reacting.

Not that with my track record, anyone would blame me. Do you know how awesome it is to NOT stumble across a scene as traumatic as, I don't know, Keith lounging around the kitchen, spit roasting a withered and flaming carcass, recognisable only by the rollers in the wiry hair . . .

What an over active imagination, huh? And all just because of an open door! The Ninth floor of Bellevue just gets closer and closer each day . . .

I vividly remember laughing at myself and feeling relieved as I walked back down the hallway, intending to head back out that stupid open door and away from this doily filled, floral wallpapered little house. But once more, my illusions of safety were violently wrenched out from under me.

Let me tell you. I am _so over_ all this 'impending death' shit. SO OVER.

I mean, I could see that hideous white Mitsubishi rental! I was already trying to decide what flavour ICE-CREAM I'd get when I stopped for gas on my way back to the motel . . .

I remember I was tossing up between a lemonade popsicle or a jelly tip.

It was when I walked past the living room door on my way out.

I froze.

And back tracked the two small steps that put me back in the doorway of Mrs Grey's living room.

Keith reclined on one of her pink floral print sofas, staring out the sliding glass door that led to the small patio like he had a perfectly good reason for being in this old woman's house.

I gasped queitly.

Well, I hoped it was quiet. Probably not though.

Oh, how AWESOME.

God this . . . I'VE HAD ENOUGH OF THIS SHIT!! ENOUGH OF THESE NASTY SURPRISES! CAN EVERYONE JUST CUT IT OUT NOW?!

. . . please don't let me find Mrs Grey revolving like a kebab in the kitchen . . . please don't let me find Mrs Grey revolving like a kebab in the kitchen . . .

"Hello Melinda," Keith greeted me casually, not looking away from the patio.

I didn't reply. I kind of just stared in horror.

And I know what you're thinking. "IF YOU HAD HALF A BRAIN, GIRL, YOU BE RUNNING FOR THE CAR AND BOOSTING IT THE FUCK OUT OF THERE ALREADY!!"

But it just doesn't work like that.

KEITH just doesn't work like that.

He'd never let me leave this house alive, I knew.

"Did you know Melinda," he said my name softly, like a caress, as he stared out at the forest green patio railing. "That lead-based pain is toxic?"

Well nah—

Wait.

. . . . . . please don't let me find Mrs Grey revolving like a kebab in the kitchen with her mouth stuffed full of lead based paint for flavour . . . please don't let me find Mrs Grey revolving like a kebab in the kitchen with her mouth stuffed full of lead based paint for flavour . . .

"Um . . ." I thought fast. "I dunno. But its kinda common isn't it? Not very creative AT ALL . . ."

And Keith liked to be creative.

He smirked, and I knew he'd seen through my dumbness.

He got to his feet then, and stretched with a groan. "Ahh . . . So. How you been, Melinda?"

??

" . . . Oh, yeah . . . just champion . . ."

"What do you think the old broad had to tell you, little Melly?'

. . . Huh?

I'd come here to re-hash the whole RED MUSTANG CONVERTIBLE thing with Mrs Grey (hoping that by pouring over old clues, new would miraculously appear. Like it does in Scooby Doo), but now Keith was saying she'd had something to tell me? Actually SOMETHING?

Like VELMA??

Instead of voicing any of this though, I said, "Don't call me that."

Impressive threat, right? Yeah, bet he was totally scared of me now. Especially with the shaky voice and all that.

He beamed at my attempt at a threat. "No, really, little Melly. Do you want to guess some more about this "red mustang" crap? Because I'm really getting a laugh out of how fucking dumb you've been." He chortled a little, as if to illustrate his point.

Yeah. Ok. I get it.

You're a humorous sadistic murdering bastard Keith. You really are.

Reluctantly I began to speak. What else could I do? "Well it's not YOUR red mustang, as clearly, you have no need for one . . . dead and all . . ."

I said this snarkily, going on the basis that most ghosts were really pretty damn sore about being dead. Keith, however—fat abnormality that he is—just winked.

Then something occurred to me. And I couldn't believe I hadn't seen it before.

Nick was right.

NICK WAS RIGHT!!

Keith was the type to drive an Aston Marton into a tree when he got a little pissy.

It was someone else entirely to orchestrate Stacy's murder, and make it look like a suicide.

Someone ELSE who decided to warn me off by sadistically murdering the people closest to me.

Someone ELSE who was alive enough to own a red mustang convertible, and then drive past a murder scene multiple times to check that all was going to plan. THEIR plan.

It was someone else who was playing (and winning, present predicament remembered,) psychological cat and mouse with me.

Keith was too dumb for any of that.

He was just someone's bitch.

. . . But WHOSE?

"So I guess," I said slowly, and there was no mistaking the conviction in my voice, "that means you have a superior. Someone whose calling the shots."

Keith chortled again. "Oh very good honey!"

My newfound contempt for Keith as just someone's flunky was shattered as I remembered he was still the murderer here.

"In fact, SO good," he continued, "that what the hell, I'm going to give you ONE GOLD STAR!!" And he giggled.

There really was no other word for it. Giggled.

He was one screwed in the head motherfucker. He got actual pleasure out of violent suffering. He was unbalanced and dangerous, and he actually enjoyed the brutal murders he was instructed to perform.

He WOULD HAVE spit roasted Mrs Grey.

If he'd thought of it.

"Where's Mrs Grey?" I demanded then.

"Guess."

FUCKWAD.

"I don't know."

"GUESS."

"Just tell me where she is!"

"But why would we talk about her? When we could talk about YOU!!" Keith said, reaching out and laying a 'friendly' hand on my shoulder. "I hear that YOU'RE hiding from ME in a dingy little hotel! You must be scared little Melly . . ."

I jerked away from his touch and glared. "Or maybe, it's just that I REALLY LIKE THEIR CONTINENTAL BREAKFASTS! Ever think of THAT?"

Oh, good one Melinda. Thumbs up. You ROCK at this tough guy talk. Why don't you now throw in a 'butt-face" for good measure? Hell, why not two?

Keith snickerd.

"Keith," I pleaded, "Come on, where is she?"

Is she ALIVE? Is she HURT?

Keith slid his bulk back down into the pink rose patterned couch and sighed theatrically. "Aw, you're no fucking fun. The old broad's out doing her Sunday shopping."

But . . . it's Wednesday, you freaking douche bag.

I mentioned this.

. . . Without the douche bag remark attached, though. I mean, my life might SUCK, (more so right now than ever,) but I'm still kind of attached to it, you know?

Keith groaned like I was completely ruining the game by refusing to play properly. Like it was freaking hide and go seek or something. "Fuck up Melinda! Why do you ALWAYS have to ruin my day?"

I replied bluntly, "You don't have days Keith. You're dead."

He raised his voice over me, " POINT IS, THE OLD BAT'S NOT DEAD!! Lee-Lee thought it would be better to freak you out without having to do any of the work. Neat, eh? You should just be jazzed I didn't shoot the old bitch."

I managed a dry little laugh. "Yeah. I would be. Totally 'jazzed'. If you, the homicidal psychopath, could be believed."

Now if Keith had gone all "Cut me deep Shrek. Cut me real deep just now," or something, things might have somehow been ok.

Instead he said, "Yeah . . . You'll never know, though aye."

You'd think I'd be so used to his death threats by now. But every time, my blood runs a little cold and I can't help but feel terrified.

Not that I don't try my best not to let Keith know this.

"I assume that's another one of your fun little threats then? I said in what I really hope was bored drawl.

But if I couldn't even convince myself that it was a bored drawl, I doubt Keith was fooled. Dumber than an inflatable pool toy Keith might have been, but he wasn't, like, Lindsay Lohan or anything.

. . . Sorry Lindsay. No offence or anything.

"Yes! Congratulations Melinda! You can have another point!" Keith cheered.

What, not even a gold star this time?

No?

FUCK YOU THEN.

You know Keith even if you WEREN'T a krazy-for-kibble murdering RAPIST, then I STILL wouldn't like you.

Yeah. HOW YOU LIKE THEM COOKIES BITCH??

. . . Shut up. I get a bit like this every time people threaten to kill me. You understand. Its all to do with that horrible niggly little voice in the back of your mind telling you that any second now, this patho in front of you was going to get a phone call that would instruct said patho to skewer and torch you in an AWOL old ladies kitchen.

. . . You'd be a little WIDE-EYED too!

"But before we get down to all that—"

Oh cool. A 10 or so minute reprieve. Reckon I'd be allowed a bathroom break? Couple slices of cake?

"Lets get back on—oopsies, I meant to say 'to—" he grinned. "Your old lady friend. What did you think I'd done to her?"

"I don't know," I said, suddenly weary.

You can only take the piss out of your own impending murder for so long. It gets real old.

I wasn't ready to meet Keith yet! And I was nowhere NEAR finding out who this "silent partner" was.

And now I think I'm going to die this afternoon.

"Aw, come one Mel-Mel. GUESS."

I was scared, yeah. But I had to do SOMETHING. I wasn't the type of person to just stand there and hope like hell it didn't hurt too much. So even though I had no IDEA of anyway I could get myself out of this alive . . .

I had to know that I'd tried.

Quickly, hoping I could move fast enough that Keith would be still be occupied with his fucking guessing games, I lunged at him, pulling him back and punching him with as much force as I could manage.

I had a very brief second in which to admire the lovely feel of cartilage giving way . . . before it all went wrong.

I'd been kind of maybe hoping (slash counting-on-with-nothing-less-than-my-life,) that Keith would be a little too heavy on his feet to retaliate with any alacrity.

Boy was I wrong.

Well, not wrong as such, because my logic was not actually flawed . . . I'd just neglected to factor in that Keith could do all the WEIRD SHIFER SHIT that I could neither do, nor had any clue about, given that my computer had "mysteriously" crashed about twenty minutes too soon.

Yeah, oops.

Funny how such a trivial little mistake could have fucked me over so thoroughly.

. . . Arabia? You may have my Gucci handbag.

I was thrown across the room and made to slam into the very top of the far wall, right up by the ceiling. Then, lucky me, I fell gracelessly two or so meters to the floor and landed messily in a heap on the light grey carpet.

I tried to get up, really I did! But I was just too slow, and hurt too much . . . and Keith reached me before I had a change to even gather my legs under me.

His cold hands—cold only in my head, as he was, first and foremost still one dead fat bastard—closed around my throat, and with a heave, he lifted me, by his sweaty grip on my neck, into the air.

. . . . And I don't think he was overly concerned about my lack of ease drawing oxygen.

Yeah, Strangulation?

Not so fun.

'When will you fucking learn," he snarled at me, all guessing games forgotten. I'd made him mad enough to forget that his orders were to play with my head. "When I tell you to do something, you fucking DO IT!!"

This last part was screamed in my face.

And the spit did not even register on my top five list of most pressing problems at that particular moment.

Yeah. THAT'S how fucking screwed I was.

I flailed desperately, gasping for breath.

Keith looked me directly in the eyes and smiled peacefully (I was too busy trying to BREATHE to full appreciate the irony of this,) as he slowly began to tighten his hold on my neck.

My eyes were huge, as my lungs began to burn from lack of oxygen . . .

Things started to get blurry around the edges . . . I couldn't keep my head clear . . . my struggles ceased as my muscles failed . . . and Keith face seemed to be closing in . . .

The last thing I remember was the revolting feeling of Keith's lips on mine, stealing from me the last oxygen I had.

**Thank you, Thank you. You know you loved it.**

**Now I have left MORE than enough clues for you to figure out who the "villain" (Keith's boss, lol,) is by now. GIANT hints. Me-after-a-week-of-eating-nothing-but-deep-friend-Mars-bars GIANT hints. These hints space out several chapters back. **

**I will write a lovely personalised "The Daughter Of" fanfic for the first person to correctly guess the true villain of this story in their review. It can be you and whichever "The Daughter Of" character you please, doing whatever you want—and if you insist, I will even write you a smushy romantic confessions. **

**Hint:** you know them.

**Kisses, as always,**

**Mariah**


	21. Surrender

**WOW. You girls REALLY hate that model, don't you? Do you have any **_**idea**_** how many reviews I got to the tune of: "Chenoal! It was Chenoal! That supermodel POND-SCUM! Shoot her!!!!"**

**You girls are great. I heart you. **

**It wasn't Mrs Grey either. Or Paul. They got the next close amount of votes. Although one darling lass did say that it was Suze. Um. It's not, love. It's really not. **

**So my prize still stands. I'll write a lovely, fluffy one-shot featuring Nick and Yourself to whoever gives me the BEST review for this chapter. **

**And?**

**I love them long and luscious.**

**. . . like my hair.**

**No. **

**Really. **

**Like my hair. **

**Lol, no, I'm just shitting you. Don't write anything about my hair. That'd be silly. **

**Warning: this chapter is a big kid one. Don't blame me if you read something you don't like. And instead of slamming it if there's no fluff, try appreciating the aesthetic value. **

**So go! Read it! Love it! Then review it!**

**. . . Freak I'm corny. Lol.**

-21). Surrender

My eyes opened and the first thing I noticed was that I was alive.

_Awesome._

Second thing I noticed was that I was alone in an empty room, soaking _wet_, and tied in place by means of rope around my wrist and a D ring set into the concrete floor.

Not so awesome.

I had a fair quantity of rope length. Enough at any rate to try and pull myself from a heap on the floor into a seated position. Stupidly, I tried it.

I couldn't prevent a small yelp being torn from my lips as the attempt at movement unexpectedly made my body completely seize up. I lay there, trying not to move again, trying not to _breathe_, as I waited for the screamingly agonizing pins and needles to release me.

Tears ran, unbidden, down my cheeks.

Fucking _hell_ . . .

My body . . . my body was frozen _raw . . ._ my limbs ached and felt bloodless of just sheer cold, and I noticed that I was really _truly_ drenched through.

Disorientated and shivering, I slowly and carefully tried, again, to sit up.

You'd think I would've learnt my lesson the first time.

Suffice to say . . . Didn't work. I gritted my teeth and tried not to make any noise as, again, my body seemed to petrify.

It took several, agonizing attempts, extending over God knows how long, before I was eventually able to sit up.

And by then . . . mate, I was fucked.

Through bleary eyes and heavy lids, I managed to ascertain that I was in a large concrete room. The walls were all painted dark blue, but the floor was just left a gluggy grey. I had a vague idea that the roof was also ridiculously high up, but as I was entirely unwilling to crane my neck to see for sure, I was only guessing.

There was also a door; which I sincerely doubted was locked from the inside. There were no air vents, just one lone, tiny skylight set in the roof. I didn't entertain much hope of that though. Even if I weren't chained to the damn floor, it would still be too high.

The only thing in the room, other than me, was a large white plastic fan. Battery operated, must have been. It whirred away steadily, projecting icy cold air from left to right.

From right to left.

It suddenly dawned that the cold concrete floor and icy air were not helping my frozen alive state.

That BITCH . . .

My yellow cotton tee-shirt was soaked through, and clung uncomfortably to my chilled skin, and I was not unaware that the cold water had made it completely see-through. My summer shorts were heavy with water as well, and the fibres of the denim rubbed painfully at my skin.

I started to tremble. It cheered me slightly that this didn't re-invite the paralysis.

Water droplets ran off my hair and onto and down my legs as my shaking dislodged them. I watched their progress bleakly, almost as numb in mind as I was in body.

I knew who it was now . . .

I guess you could say that it ALL made sense now. I only really had one last question left unanswered. _Why wasn't I dead already?_

She want to gloat or something?

Did she want me to lie here, frozen and growing colder by the second, berating myself for NEVER having suspected her?

Because I hadn't.

_Not for a single second. _I would never have thought that Lisa Vanderleigh could have murdered her own daughter.

I sat there for what felt like forever, helpless but to wait as the cold seeped through to my bones, making them feel brittle and alien.

I was pretty sure that that wasn't no accident, either.

I didn't just _happen _to be drenching wet.

It wasn't merely _unfortunate _there was a huge fan in the entirely concrete room.

I'm pretty damn sure I was _supposed _to be feeling like a leg of mutton in the freezing works.

Bitch.

Eventually I lost track of time. My wristwatch and cell-phone had been removed from my person (I tied not to dwell on this,) and I had no means whatsoever of distinguishing one hour from the next.

After a while, my stomach began to feel like it would digest itself for hunger, and I really wouldn't have said no to a bathroom break . . .

Of course, it's a little hard to care too much about that shit when you're more preoccupied with frostbite and lifelong paralysis concerns.

I was able to discern by the skylight when night fell. Adding insult to injury was how perfect and clear the night sky looked. I could tell, that beyond my own glacial incarceration, it was temperate night.

I sat there and just waited. It was all I could do. I sat there and waited for my own death. Not exactly an awesome thing to have to wait for, but I was kind of low on options.

She hadn't exactly provided me with a PSP or anything. Talk about cheap.

Although I would have settled for NOT DYING OF HYPOTHERMIA.

I've said it once, and I'll say it again.

BITCH!!!!!

At first I couldn't decide wether I wished she would never come in, or if she'd just hurry up and kill me already. Yet as the hours stretched on, I found myself more inclined to favour the latter.

I don't mean to sound garish, but it was FUCKING COLD!!!!!

Then the door slowly inched open.

Frantically I found myself going back on my pervious fatalist aspirations.

No no . . . I though to myself frantically. I changed my mind . . . . you can piss off now, I'll just hang out here and wait till my heart congeals . . .

Stacy's mum stepped around the door and practically sashayed up to me in my shackled state. If I could've been certain that any spitting on my part would not have solidified before I'd gotten it all the way outta my mouth, I mighta given it a shot.

"Aww, Melinda, sweetie," she purred. I just shivered some more. It wasn't like I had a choice or anything. Then she reached down and with a deft flick of her (not frozen) hands, she untied the rope.

You know what sucked the MOST? She'd left the door wide open. If I wasn't stuck to the floor like an icicle to your tongue, I was sure I could've made it. THEN it would be all fool her for leaving the fucking door open. And untieing me!

Wait. I guess she knows that.

I guess that was her idea then.

A wound-and-salt sort of thing, I was assuming.

"Keith!" she called. "Keith, darling, come here! You'll love this."

Keith then materialised at her elbow. The abruptness of this may have made me jump, but again. I felt a little like an Igloo.

Keith looked down at me, in all his beefy glory. He held a slight wooden chair in his hand, but any significance of this did not dawn on me. Keith snorted at me, a shivering huddle on the floor. "Sucks to be you, princess."

I had to agree.

Although, if you ask me, it'd suck to be Keith as well. On a good day.

However a new feeling was beginning to permeate the awful numbness, and my—unsuccesful—stabs at alleviating humour.

_Fear_.

I'm no martyr. I'm scared shitless to die. Especially at the hands of my best friend's sadistic patho of a mother.

Bummer.

I'm sure you think I'm being cavalier right now. Joking and all. I'm not trying to. I just don't think I could handle—handle—THIS any other way.

Lisa noticed expression on my face and smiled widely.

The only thing I could think of right then, was that movie, "The Bank Job" with that guy from "Transporter" in it. In it the baddies steal this guy down into a vault, and then torture him with a blow torch to get him to tell them where his friend is.

And—

And all I see in my mind was an image of me lying on this concrete floor with my—

With my skin all melted and pooling to the concrete floor.

—_I would be left here. _

—_And my skin would cool in the air and set to the . . . to the concrete . . ._

My spine curled, and my forehead met up against the unforgiving cold concrete ground.

"Look at me Melinda." Lisa murmured.

I didn't. Not because I was going for any great defiance thing, but because I literally could not raise my forehead from the icy cool concrete.

My body began to heave slightly. It took me a second to work out that I was crying, tearless sobs. My body was too overwrought to produce actual tears, so it was just going through the motions of fear.

This just freaked me out more.

I heard her mutter something, but I couldn't distinguish the words. The next thing I felt was Keith's beefy (and burning hot compared to my overall body temperature,) hands on my head lifting me up by my drenched hair. He heaved my traumatised body clear of the floor and chucked me into the wooden chair, and I grasped at the sides, in an effort to keep myself upright.

"Mother fucker," I wheezed, not quite having enough air or voice to make the words distinguishable even to my own ears. At any rate, Lisa just laughed at me some more.

I stared dully up at her, made stupid by my knowledge that there was no escape.

"Hey! Hey Melinda!" Keith wrenched my head in his direction. "Are you surprised??" He exclaimed with glee, like a child boating over their hide-and-go-seek victory. "It was LISA, this whole time!!!"

Lisa smiled at her devotee; like a mother indulging her child's "In your FACE, I win, clever me!" sing-song.

I wouldn't get too excited about that there Keith. Lisa kills her kids, hadn't you heard?

Of course you had.

You pulled the fucking trigger.

. . . This would be so much cooler if I could say it aloud. But two things: one: It would have taken WAY too much effort to try and shape my numb lips around the words, and two: I hear its never a good idea to piss off anyone when you're a hostage.

That seemed to my numb brain like pretty sound advice.

Then again.

We're not always given the choice.

"Yes . . " Lisa drawled. "It's true. I killed Stacy. Stacy . . . Brian . . . Alanna . . . That British fellow . . . and I had a go at your mum . . ."

"Would," My voice came out as a rasping, husky snarl. "Would you like a gold star?"

. . . FUCK UP, OK??? It was the only smart reply I could think of!!!!!

LIKE YOU COULD DO BETTER!!!!!

Lisa frowned. "What?"

I decided that was enough out of me, and sat there mute.

Lisa obviously decided to let it pass. Instead she began to slowly circle me. Warily, I lifted an aching arm and had a go at pushing Keith's fat hands of me. It was successful, and wasn't at the same time. Regardless, he let go of me.

"So," Lisa drawled from somewhere behind me. I swung my head around, trying to see her. "No stunned disbelief? No incredulous stuttering of my name? 'Oh dear oh my!'" She cried in a damsel falsetto. "'I cannot believe it! I trusted you! You were my friend!" And she cracked up.

"Um, actually," I said in my sea-crustacean voice, "I don't sound anything like that."

. . . Way to tell her Melinda.

Abruptly I heard her cease her mockery. "Well of course you don't."

"No-no." I stuttered, wary. "I don't."

"But you see sweetheart," she said casually, moving to stand over me. She leaned forwards, placing a hand on the chair's armrests on either side of me. "You will." And she reached out to tuck a lock of my hair behind my ear.

I could only stare, petrified.

Lisa smiled at me apologetically, in a manner that still didn't quite reach her cold grey eyes.

Then with a quick flick of her arm, she pulled something from the back waistband of her jeans. I didn't see what the object was.

"You see Melinda," Stacy's mom whispered, leaning even closer to me. "Everyone screams the same way when they're dying." She shot a look at Keith, obviously enjoying a private joke. "Take our word for it."

Keith chuckled.

Belatedly, I began to fight in earnest.

Keith was there before I'd made any progress, slamming me back into the chair with a force that should have broken it. Or me. The chair tilted backwards with Keith's force, and I scrambled for balance. Lisa strode forward and grabbed me by the throat.

I'll thank her some other time.

Also on top of my recent good fortune, Lisa finally decided to show me what it was she'd had behind her back.

I honestly, wish she hadn't.

She was showing me by pressing it tight up against my check, and even though I couldn't see it exactly, I know a knife when I feel one.

Suddenly, she slid the blade sideways and I felt a painful stinging and the warm wetness.

My eyes widened in shock and pain and I reminded myself to keep breathing. No need to make her job easier.

Brave words . . .

I wonder if I'd still be feeling the same way when she started scraping bone.

Lisa watched calmly as I swiped uselessly at the blood gushing down the side of my face. "Oh dear," she said sympathetically. "Your pretty face. What a shame."

Tears mingled with the blood and I wondered fleetingly of this was all a case of prom queen resentment, or something. Lisa got passed up for the crown back in 1972 and never got over it; now she's overcompensating with me—?

Then I realised, no, that probably wasn't it. She's just crazy.

Well, neither scenario was looking too promising for me anyway, so I dunno why I was getting so hung up on it.

"Oh yeah?" I then managed to choke out through tears, snot and, oh yeah, MY OWN BLOOD, "Well _you_ own a mustang convertible! So SHAME!!"

Lisa sighed at my pathetic—yet valid, wouldn't you say?—comment and stepped back from me, dangling her instrument in the air by it's handle. "Recognise this Melinda?"

Reluctantly, I looked at the blade, if only out of a lack of other alternatives, only to give a start and realise I DID recognise it.

No . . .

It is Nick's.

This is Nick's knife.

I knew without a doubt that it was his. And even if I were in any way inclined to doubt it, the engraved initials at the base of the handle would have been enough to dissuade me.

How the _hell_ did she get that?

I tried to process this. The knife was from his top left bureau drawer! I remember it! I came across it when I was staying with Nick.

"What's that?" I'd asked him, instantly wary of any object of violence. It's not like I was hiding out from a sadistic murderer or anything.

He muttered some pathetic explanation and tried to move it out of my sight. I wouldn't let it go. It bothered me that he had such a large knife. I mean, it wasn't like it was a pocket-knife or anything, this was a full out _dagger_.

Eventually, he'd sighed. "It's a family heirloom, alright?"

"Aside from the fact that the Slater's only heirloom is money, how can you expect me to believe that this has been in your family for generations when I can, in fact, clearly see the present generation's initials on the handle?"

He'd rolled his eyes.

"Nick?" I persisted. "What? Your ancestors could tell the future? KNEW what your name was going to be? Scratched in your initials on a lucky guess?"

"I'm named after my great grandfather, Melinda."

". . . Oh. Well that makes WAY more sense."

He rolled his eyes again, probably once again marvelling at the neurosis of his girlfriend.

"Still though," I attempted. "That is one . . . HUGE knife."

He exhaled gustily. "Yeah. It's all about dynasty power, symbolism, legacy, blah blah blah . . . It's stupid."

"Oh. Ok, yeah, I get it."

I think it goes without saying that although I'd agreed with him at the time, I didn't _really _get it. At all. Symbolism? Legacy? _Dynasty_?

DOUBLEYEW-TEE-EFF?

NOW, as in right now, with the knife being dangled in my face like chocolate cake in an anorexic's, I suddenly got it. It was a sacrificial dagger. Ornamented for the purpose of reminding each of the Slater kin of their position on the hierarchy of life.

Slaters' must always be at the top, with their daggers.

People (like, oh, I dunno, ME,) come at the bottom. We're the sacrifices.

This ephiphany—while enlightening—did nothing to alleviate my present situation, however. And Stacy's mum must have seen the knowledge in my face. "Oh yes," she murmured. "It's your boyfriend's own little knife—" _Little_ wasn't an adjective I'd use, "—that's going to be making you scream your perfect little head off as I try my hand at facial reconstruction."

I sucked in a breath. I'm kind of fond of my face really. I mean I'm no Aishwarya Rai or anything, but whose complaining?

"_Ironic_ isn't it?" she added happily. " . . . I hope _he_ isn't too attached to your face."

"It's—It's—the knife—is just an object." I tried, "Nick's not behind it."

Keith stepped forward then. "Maybe. But I reckon he wishes it was. Last I saw, he wasn't too fond of you."

. . . memories of his attempts at arson come to mind. "YES!" I said too loudly. "He broke up with me because I cheated on him! He hates me now, and I hate him!!!"

I was barely fooling anyone anymore. Sure enough, Keith sniggered.

I was so glad everyone thought this whole thing so damn funny.

"Maybe you're right Melinda," Lisa nodded, a smile too playing about her mouth. "Guess it means nothing to you that I've decided he'll be killed anyway. Never liked him. So just so you know, even if you did . . . say, dump him just to save him . . . " she shrugged.

I began to cry.

I couldn't—I just couldn't do this. I couldn't handle this woman. She was CRAZY, she was DERANGED, and she would do anything to mentally dismantle me.

I felt like screaming at her, STOP!!! CUT IT OUT ALREDAY!!! IS OVER! I'm DONE!! YOU WIN!!!

But she already knew that.

She had the perfect tricks to get in a persons head and dismantle them.

She got the world think her own daughter had killed herself.

And she'd got me to find Brian. To find Daniel. And to find Alanna.

She'd got me to realise the link between all these 'accidents'. The link that was . . . me.

And now she was ready to kill me. I could see it in her eyes. And probably, she'd ensure that it was Nick who found me. Probably bloody and mangled and riddled with holes made by his own knife.

Yes. That's what she would do.

My eyes drifted shut and I swallowed.

I wondered how much it would hurt him to see me like that? If he would know that I'd lied to him. I loved him. I loved him so much. I wondered if he'd then be put through the same torturous pain I knew Lisa was going to bring my way very shortly.

I hoped not.

But there was nothing I could do about it.

More tears slid out from beneath my closed lids.

"Aw, there there," Keith cupped his hand around my cheek and kissed a tear off. I just cried some more. "Hey, I know what might make you feel better!"

I heaved my lids upwards and with a massive effort, rolled my head up to meet Keith's gaze. It would only be worse if I didn't. I've just figured out: the path of least resistance is best.

Apathy . . . apathy is like cocoon. You become so swathed in it, that you can't feel anymore; and you can only hope you never will again. No matter how big the knife.

"NOT knowing why!" Keith exclaimed gleefully.

Stacy's mom glared daggers at him, a look that all too clearly said, 'fuck up homo! You're killing my moment!'

Because I knew most of it now. I knew what happened. I knew what was going to happen. All I didn't know was WHY it happened.

And I had a pretty good idea that no-one here was about to spill the beans.

Lisa turned her back on Keith. "He's right," She purred. "All is NOT going to be revealed. Not how, not when, and certainly not why."

I began to laugh hysterically thourght the flood of tears dripping from my chin. "The broad thinks," I choked out between giggles, "she's Doctor Suess" I hiccoughed, and then cracked up.

I don't know what was wrong with me. THIS WASN'T FUNNY!

Keith stared at me in disbelief "Are you fucking kidding me?" he asked, in regards to my sudden burst of wit.

"Does she NEED a reason? She's a fucking psycho! Who owns a RED CONVERTIBLE! Shame!" I added to Lisa forgetting that I'd already said this. I then dissolved into giggles again.

I couldn't help it. I couldn't stop myself. It was the least funny moment of my life and I couldn't stop laughing. Seems Lisa's not the only patho in the room.

Lisa smiled calmly. "You're awfully funny for one whose going to have the point of her boyfriend's knife sticking out of her forehead soon."

. . . Yeah. There was that.

Abruptly my laughter cut out.

"Because you know," Lisa ploughed relentlessly on with her psychobabble, "Melinda, I'm like a magician, you see. And a magician never reveals their secrets. Otherwise your disappearance wouldn't be quite so . . . _perfect_."

I looked at her with bleary eyes. I didn't say it; but I'm sure she knew what I was thinking.

_Yeah. Ok. Hurry up._

There was nothing, NOTHING I could do. I'd tried everything. And because I hadn't just let her kill me in the beginning, Alanna and Daniel and Brian were dead as well. I couldn't stop her. I wasn't enough. I was only making it worse.

My heart tapped out a dull rhythm, and I finally surrendered something I'd been fighting for for a long time.

My life.

"So, Melinda." She said my name like it was a punch line of her favourite joke. Which, I guess, is not a bad analogy. "Has this been fun?"

I didn't have anything to say to that.

She walked forward and pulled my clenched knees apart, coming to stand in between my legs. Like she was going to . . .? Fuck that's weird.

I saw Keith start to chuckle behind her, and it dawned on me that I might not be that far off . . .

Oh my God.

Poor Nick.

He was going to find the aftermath of whatever Lisa decided to do . . .

Lisa placed her arms around my neck and arched her chest into my face. I looked up at her with dull horror. What the HELL . . .

Then her next statement threw some enlightenment on the situation. "Teenagers are funny aren't they," She asked. I don't know wether she was talking to me or Keith. "It's all about sex when you're sixteen."

My breathing stilled.

"Can you imagine . . ." she drawled, sliding the point of Ni—the dagger over the bare and goosebumped skin of my thigh. '. . . How beautiful it would it be if Nick found Keith—"

_That's_ when I screamed.

Keith came out of no-where, and was behind me, his big hands covering my mouth.

"Scream all you like!' Lisa huffed, throwing her arm up to my throat, and pressing the big dagger tightly over my throat. I froze.

Dreadfully gentle, Lisa slid the blade down the front of my tee-shirt, cutting the fabric apart. I could hear Keith's heavy breathing behind me.

I began to shake again.

Not from the cold this time.

Lisa held the point of the knife at the base of my sternum, below my breasts. "No-one can hear you princess."

And without giving me a change to respond—not that I had anything to say anyway—Lisa bent at the waist, and used the weight of her body to slash the knife horizontally over my ribs. I screamed again, as the knife slid over my rib-bones. It hurt SO bad, how could anything—

Lisa reacher out and swept a hand over the incision, in an almost loving way. A guttural sound was tore from my throat as her skin made contact with the flash mess. Blood flew out, and I doubled over, trying to protect myself, but wrenched back against the chair by Keith. My body went limp, and I would have fallen, if not painstakingly held in place. Blood was everywhere, streaming down over my stomach and thighs, making a splatter pattern on the cold concrete.

It felt like fire. Torn, and hot and BURNING.

My head and neck slumped over, I clenched my eyes and teeth tightly, trying to stay conscious. God knew how worse it would be if I didn't. I screamed incomprehensible words at her, tears running into my throat and partially choking me when I opened my mouth. I spluttered and the motion seared my stomach over again.

"Oh shush," I barely made out Lisa's voice. "It's not deep, really. Those sort of wounds just . . . sting a little."

My eyes rolled back into my head as I took hold of my lip between my teeth and tried to breathe deeply.

Then I heard a different sounding scream. At first I just thought it was me again, I juts didn't know it. Then I made out Stacy's voice.

"No!!!" I heard a flurried rustle, and the muffled sounds of movement. "Mum—" The weight of keith's hands left my neck, and then I heard a sound that sounded a lot like a sixteen year old ghost having the shit knocked out of her by a big beefy forty year old ghost.

I swayed, and hit the cold concrete floor. I whimpered at the impact, and my body curled into itself. I just let myself sink pathetically into the floor.

_God, God this—_

_. . . save them, save them. Get them—away—_

"MUM! Please! What are you DOING?"

"Means to an end sweetheart," came the unruffled reply.

"Melinda!" Stacy screamed at me. I didn't move. I didn't open my eyes. I didn't know if I could. I felt so weak. I could feel the sticky wetness of the concrete, and belatedly. I realised what it was. There was so much . . . felt so dizzy . . .

"Melinda, it's OK!!—oompfh—Fuck, OFF!!!" I heard a rush and then a loud crash.

Then soft hands were on my wrists, patting my forehead, "Melinda," Stacy gasped, "Oh my God, Melinda, can you hear me? Listen, it's OK, Nick—"

Then Stacy's hands were ripped off me and there was silence.

Pure, untainted silence.

I could taste tangy flavour of blood on my lips.

"Oh, get up, you pathetic little girl," I heard Lisa snap. I assumed she was talking to me. "You're fine. We've got a lot more we have to do before you can—"

Then, for the last time, Lisa's voice cut off. I heard a loud crack, and the distinctive sound of a body falling.

Hope—

I didn't know if this was salvation, ready for me. Or alternately, just an accelerated from of damnation. Which I was presently of a mind to view as the same thing.

Springs—

I blacked out.

Eternal—

**ReeeeeeeeevIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEwwwwww . . . .**

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	22. Curtain Call

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**(Miranda Priestly's voice:) . . .That's all. **

-19) Curtain Call

Murmurs.

Like birds.

Like the brush of their wings.

Feathered wings.

Only little.

Little murmurs.

. . . Not unpleasant. Pleasant really. Quite. Quite pleasant. Like floating. Floating floating floating . . .

The nice floating bubble feeling was crudely interrupted. The fluttery murmuring broke off into definite yelling. I whimpered, and cringed away from the rough noise, which itself broke off abruptly at my reaction.

There was an aching pressure being applied to both sides of my head, pressing tightly, tightly, too tightly! It hurt – it was about here that I realised the pressure was of my own making, my hands pressing themselves tightly over my ears in my own effort to rediscover the safe murmurs.

I ceased the pressure.

Feeling gradually came back into my limbs (I could feel my hands, my legs, the rough denim of my shorts – now dry,) enough for me to wish more fervently that it hadn't; as with this realisation, came full recollection.

Fucking hell.

Obstinately, I let myself hope that my situation had improved, and stubbornly, I kept my eyes pressed tightly shut out of unwillingness to dispel my new little illusion.

Eventually I had to admit to myself that I could still feel that _fucking _concrete. And each breath I drew was laboured and heavy – the result of stale, cold air.

A random thought struck me then. Could this room be . . . UNDERGROUND?

But there's a window in the roof – does that mean to say that the ROOF is GROUND level?

THAT'S FU—

Hands grabbed the top of my arms in a very familiar manner, and like a small child who'd been naughty, I was hauled into an upright position. The spinning of my head accelerated to a nauseating pace, and I retched, tasting bile.

Reluctantly, I swallowed. My body was then roughly shaken, and of a will I'm not entirely convinced was my own, my eyelids were prised open.

It was all too bright.

Like the exposure of the world had been turned to a ridiculously high setting.

I reeled back, squinting, and may have fallen again, if I hadn't been caught, and wrapped in a bone-crushing hug.

I cried out, as Stacy's body—insignificant to anyone but me—made contact with the damage to my abdomen that was the result of Stacy's own crackpot mother, and rubbed the raw mess. I groaned, and hunched my shoulders in an almost feral posture of self-protection.

Lisa's promise of "stings" was more than apt.

"What?" Stacy's voice fluttered. "Oh, I . . ." her voice broke to a whisper, " . . . forgot. "

Yeah. Me too.

Shame how long that lasted.

"I'm" I rasped, and surprised myself at how unintelligible my voice was, "Fine."

She didn't look at all reassured, if anything, the panic over her glowing features heightened, and I realised that she couldn't distinguish my shitty attempt at speech any better that I could.

So placing a (somewhat shaky, it's true,) hand upon her shoulder in an attempt to steady myself, I looked directly into her wide blue eyes and gave raised my left hand in a shaky thumbs up.

That was enough for her. Her eyes flooded with the ghost of tears (now THERES some irony)– and I belatedly realised that I too was crying. And had been for some time. Which tripped me out. I felt light-headed, and I wondered if I had been used as an experimental drug guinea pig while I was out.

I wasn't ruling that out just yet.

However, as Stacy's shoulders shook harder and harder, it dawned on me that she was not in fact crying. But laughing.

I couldn't repress a sliver of bad will at that. I, for one, failed to see the humour.

I attempted to disregard all of this, and try and figure out . . . well. Try and figure out what the hell really. Once I forced my eyes to adjust to the fluoro colours I'd been seeing, I ascertained that I was still in the blasted concrete room.

So definitely no improvement there.

Also, I saw a hulking shadow in one of the back corners of the room. "Umm . . . Stace?"

. . . I sounded like a Chihuahua yelping.

She turned to look at me.

I made my arm point at the back left corner, where Lisa was huddled behind the battery fan, unconscious, from what I could surmise, but with a regular breathing pattern.

Stacy's face twisted into a forced grin. Which I found strange, but whatevs. "Yeah. Your boy Nick knocked her out. Punched her, he did."

I gasped. "Nick? Nick was here? NO! He can't be! He has to get away—" I was getting hysterical, and accidentally I hiccoughed, which clawed at my tummy like you wouldn't BELIEVE. I moaned, and curled over.

Stacy patted me on the back. I knew she meant it as a symbol of solidarity, but it literally did not help me. At all.

"Anyway. Nick's gone now. And I promised that I'd look after Lisa while he's chasing Keith around Shadowland." She grinned viciously.

I painstakingly hauled myself to my feet, and said to her, "Come on. We have to go. Leave her here." My lip curled as I looked at the reason for my current misfortune, heaped against the wall.

What I wouldn't give to smack her honey blonde highlighted hair into this concrete floor again and again and again . . .

I made so as to use Stacy's arm as a crutch and turned to leave through that blessedly still open door.

Seems, Lisa, you arrogant bitch you should have shut and locked the door after all. You were so busy rubbing it in my face that I couldn't save myself, couldn't get out, you entirely forgot to accommodate the fun little fact that someone ELSE could save me. Someone ELSE could get me out.

Things were looking up for team Melinda!!!

FUCK team whacko.

My internal mirth was halted when I noticed that Stacy had not moved to the door with me. I turned back to look at her enquiringly.

"I don't think so Melinda."

…I-don't-think-so Tim. JUST like Tool Time.

FOCUS, MELINDA.

". . . What?"

Stacy looked me in the eyes and said with a voice completely devoid of all infliction. "I won't ever leave her, Melinda. Ever. Not ever."

It took me a second to realise she was talking about Lisa.

I stared down at the sprawled form of the woman who was a sadistic torturer, but also the mother of the ghost in front of me. I tried to consider this, but all I could remember was that Lisa was in cohorts with the party responsible for her daughters brutal death. A death that I couldn't help but suspect Lisa had known about. Maybe not just known about, but—

Well, Keith's hardly the mastermind type, is he!? He's muscles without a conscience. Lisa told him to beat up me, he did. Lisa told him to murder Brian in the catholic school gardens, he did. Lisa told him to attract press by murdering Alanna and Daniel in my living room. HE DID.

SO wouldn't it be true to say . . .

But WHY? WHY would Lisa want her own daughter dead?

I don't understand. And I didn't think that answers would be forthcoming. Lisa said she wanted me to die cold and alone, and not knowing why – not to mention riddled with holes from the love of my life's own knife.

So I looked at Lisa with none of the compassion of her Daughter's eyes. All I could feel was a vicious, clawing hate. A desire to cause her as much pain as she had MY family . . .

I could help but thrill at such an intoxicating idea . . . My upper lip curled, but I turned back to face Stacy and forced a casual shrug. "It doesn't matter. We'll lock her in here."

See how she likes it.

I was all for filling a paddling pool with ice cubes, and chucking her in that too. Perhaps I might even go as far as to STAB THE BITCH A COUPLE TIMES.

Stacy stood with her ballet-slippered feet firmly planted. She sneered at me, and I blinked in surprise. "You don't get it, do you?" Stacy asked me. "She is my EVERYTHING. For her, I do ANYTHING."

"Stacy . . ." I whispered. "What are you—"

She cut me off with a wave of her hand. "It's funny, how things work out, don't you think Melinda? It is FUNNY." Stacy went and sat in the wooden chair, and then leaned back, throwing her hands up behind her head. "I've killed quite a few people now. All for her. For us! So we could finally be together."

I blinked, my head still a little foggy.

What . . .

"Stacy," I said slowly and carefully, "You're her daughter, you WERE together . . ."

Stacy rolled her head to look at me, and my words froze in my throat. "No. Melinda. No. Lisa didn't used to be with me. Not really. She'd kiss me, and then have to go back. She'd touch me," here her mouth screwed up at the corner, "and have to go back--"

What the HELL?

". . . INCEST, much?"

She carried on like she hadn't heard me. And I don't know. She probably hadn't. Her eyes were alight with a strange fervour, and suddenly she was screaming. "Then she went BACK TO HER DAUGHTER!!!" Stacy's brown eyes turned to meet mine, and I saw nothing but focused fury there, thinly veiled by a mocking calm. "You see, Melinda, princess, Lisa and I could only be together if Stacy . . .well, if Stacy wasn't. Get it?"

And I did.

I did.

I sucked in a horrified breath and stared at "Stacy" in dumb horror.

"Lisa didn't want me to tell you any of this, princess," Keith drawled, stretching his legs. "She wanted you to die all alone, screaming why, yadda yadda. But I dunno. I reckon it's more fun this way. And I've got some minutes to spare before my Angel comes back to us." Keith's unmistakable chuckle rang out through the room, echoing off the concrete walls. "So it's storytime! Any questions to open the floor!?"

"Where," my voice shook with suppressed anger. "Is Stacy?"

"DEAD, princess!" Keith exclaimed like I was retarded. "Weren't you listening? Oh, you mean the ghost?"

"The. Ghost."

"Oh. Yeah. I'm not sure." Stacy's own shoulders shrugged carelessly. "I've simply borrowed her physical form (it's not hard, by the way. I dunno _what _YOUR shifters have been teaching you. Fuck all, clearly,) and in turn, gifted her with my own physical form." He snorted. "So for all intents and purposes, I now look like the ghost of the first girl I ever killed! Cool huh? Give it up for a Miss Stacy VanderLeigh!!" Keith chuckled again. "Silly little bitch, barging in here with your fuck-buddy, when we were just getting started."

I retched a little at the memory.

"So I dealt with her," Keith's grin was the canary, who has the canary in his pocket, saved away for later. "But your little fucker did something to my Lisa, and she's out cold." He frowned for a second, then abruptly grinned. "But she'll be up soon, I know."

The way he wrapped his tongue around her name made me shudder. I wondered why I hadn't seen this sort of sick devotion earlier.

"Where is Nick?" I demanded, my voice hard.

Keith beamed at me. "That's one of the best parts. He's up in Shadowland, most likely beating the shit out of your bratty friend, whom he thinks is me!" He chortled. "It's fucking beautiful, ain't it?"

This I doubted. It was a great idea in theory, but Keith underestimates the drive of anyone who, unlike himself, is not mentally deficient. I knew that Nick would listen to Stacy first. They would sort it out.

I hoped.

I started trying to plan. I couldn't get to them up there, while Keith, (who looked like Stacy,) was here, because he would either follow me up there, or do terrible things to my body so that I couldn't use it as my anchor to earth any more.

It wouldn't be hard to dispose of my body. Then I'd be as dead as Lisa wants me.

So my only option was to try and get Nick to come back here . . .

I have no idea how to do that.

"So . . ." I asked in what I hoped was an impressively offhand voice. I was on shaky ground, and we both knew it. "Let me just make sure I've got this. So this whole things can all be bottled down to this: Lisa, the mediator, got _the ghost of a shifter_ to kill her daughter, just so that she could be in a relationship with . . . _you_?"

If you ask me, it was a bum trade.

"Sort of." Keith said pleasantly. I couldn't get used of staring into Stacy's eyes as we had this conversation. "But I wasn't a ghost at first."

I sneered, and said sarcastically, "Is anyone?" Then I understood what he'd said, and as understanding grew, my sarcasm cut out all together.

"I was alive when I met and loved Lisa, the light of my life." Keith supplied helpfully. "And then when Stacy" he sneered her name, "began to . . . obstruct our love, Lisa had an idea. See, she said there would be too much suspicion surrounding Stacy's death if I did it when I was alive, and then got together with her, Lisa, straight afterwards. She's so clever, my angel. And my angel knew, her being a mediator and I a shifter, that my being dead could not make a difference for US. So my angel decided . . . that it would be more convenient . . . if I were dead." He shrugged again. "So I did."

My jaw may have dropped a little. Just a little.

The simplicity of this statement frightened me more than anything else that had happened to me this night.

Lisa suggested Keith kill himself. So he just _did_.

There is nothing more sick or terrifying than that sort of perverse devotion.

And also, I was just a shade amazed at how lightly Keith regarded all this! Not only is he like, _"Hang on a sec baby, did you say you want me to kill myself so we can't get caught when we kill your kid? YEAH SURE!!" _But he's also like, _"Death? Big deal. Like a walk to the supermarket for eggs, cheese and milk. Fuck the boring shit like LIFE! Your ideas are WAY more fun!"_

What a fucking jerk off.

Keith continued to tell his story, in the same casual manner. "Then I had a couple . . . years off, I guess you could say, to fully master the powers I'd taken for granted in my ghost form. It was a bit harder than I thought. But then I came back, and well," Stacy's bony shoulders again shrugged modestly, "you know the rest." He beamed. "I shot Lisa's daughter. And I made it look like the girl did it herself."

It was most unnerving to hear this tale straight from Stacy's own lips. But I nodded slowly, fighting anger and taking the given time to mull over this.

. . . Then I thought of something, sure to piss him off and provoke him. And maybe, just maybe, that would alert Nick.

He's long been the hero of my sorry life.

And unlike some freaking fairytale hero, Nick doesn't just turn up at the eleventh-hour to save the damsel out of LUCK. I knew, I KNEW he had some spiritual assistance. Some ghost shit that tells him when fuckers like Lisa and/or Keith are on a killing spree.

He's a mediator, for fucks sake! He can set his house on fire just by staring really really intensly!!!! Surely he could sense the disturbance in the force that would be me getting the shit kicked out of me!

In hindsight, I can accept that this may not have been the most flawless of reasoning. But at the time, to my exhausted and overwhelmed mind, it was _gold. _

Because I would not give up.

Not again.

"That's all well and good Keith," I drawled slowly, "But lets just take a second to consider a few things?"

He nodded in what, for him, passed as a gesture of graciousness.

"As of right this instant," I said in my most chipper, isn't-the-world-a-beautiful-place voice, "Your whackjob GF is coma'd out over there in the corner, your body is fuck knows where up in astro-land, Nick is well, free and knows the whole story—"

Well. Almost. If I could live long enough to tell it to him, he would. Lets cross our fingers, eh?

"—And you," I continued merrily. "YOU my fat friend, are in a camisole top."

Keith's expression was priceless.

So just for good measure, I added, "But that skirt really fits you beautifully. The shaping over the thighs is . . ." I gathered the fingers the thumb of my right hand and brought them to my mouth to kiss the tips in an exuberant fashion, " . . . esquisite."

He snarled at me. There's no other word for it.

I would have like to laugh, but that wouldn't be doing my stomach any good, so I settled for sitting there, staring earnestly up at Keith with my very sweetest smile.

Keith's a bad sport.

With two short strides he was towering over me. He snatched up fistfuls of my hair and yelled in my face a few indistinctive words (although, I must admit, I got the gist,) spittle and saliva flying.

I couldn't help but wince as the gash over my ribs was unsettled, and Stacy's voice laughed at me.

Yet fortunately, Keith was hindered by his own decisions. He was used to having the physical force of a six-two beefy middle-aged man. Not a scrawny sixteen year old. He just wasn't packing the same sort of punch (I should know). I rather appreciated it that his own stupid choice to take Stacy's form has actually helped me, just a tiny bit.

Keith was like that, I was coming to realise. He has a complete lack of respect for the physical, the tangible. Instead he's literally obsessed with the metaphysical, the supernatural.

Case in point one: His light dismissal of his own physical form, and hurry to take Stacy's. Case in point two: his obsession with a woman he himself admitted wasn't really his to begin with.

Because every mother belongs to her child.

Unless of course, that mother has a better idea . . .

Keith released his hold on my neck, only to place a hand on each of my shoulders and shoved me so I stumbled and crashed heavily on the ground. Instinctively, I curled over to protect my tummy, but that just made it worse, as my touch instigated a new blood flow. Which was just what I needed. Not. Keith leaned down and placed his face directly in front of mine.

Which sucked.

Keith started all conversationally, "You know Melinda," and then suddenly he was yelling again. "I WASN'T FINISHED TELLING MY STORY!"

"Sor—" I spluttered, and tried again, trying not to move too much. "So-_ry_."

"I don't really think you are, somehow." Keith's voice was dispassionate. Then, aiming a kick at my midsection, which I screamed when I did not entirely manage to avoid, he said, "Ah well. Nevermind. I'll keep telling my story, shall I?"

He walked over to Lisa and gently lifted her up with Stacy's frail arms, and lumbered Lisa's considerately more bulky frame over into the chair. He propped her up in the seat where she lolled, sickly.

Kudos to Nick for that one, by the way.

He knocks out psycho's on command, really. What a guy.

Keith clutched Lisa to Stacy's body in a gesture of comfort. "I haven't finished my story, have I Angel?" he asked Lisa's unresponsive form. "And by cripes, Melinda, just you wait. You will fucking _adore _it!"

I doubted that very much.


	23. Standing Ovation

**Hi!**

**Look!**

**It's the next chapter!**

**Exciting isn't it? Even more exciting . . . this one is in ****NICK'S P/O/V****. Read on . . .**

…**Warning: "Boy" Language. i.e: the repetitive mention of balls. **

-20) Standing Ovation

Nick's **P**(oint)**O**(f)**V**(iew) - **LOL**

"What a – " I wheezed, "Mother – fucking – joke."

"Nick, _please," _Keith spluttered, speech made a little difficult by my hands around his thick throat. I ignored him and grunted as I heaved the fat fucker higher in the air.

"You have to listen to me, I'm not —"

I tightened my hold so his flesh pulsed unhealthily for a few seconds and interrupted whatever show pony shit he was about to spin me; before I used all of my upper body strength to hurl him through the air, slamming his doughy ass into one of the Astral Plane doors.

It fucking pulled my back like a bitch, but I would bet a large sum of money that it hurt him more.

"Aw," I huffed, patronising. "Poor little rapist."

Keith moaned a little bit as he tried to pull himself into a sitting position, but scrapped together a retort: "Sarcasm," then there was a pause as he, sniffing, tried to slow the blood flow from his nose, "does not become you."

"Maybe not. But choking on your own blood becomes _you _really well."

I just couldn't stop myself. I was beating the shit out of him.

I thought of what this _cunt_ had planned for Melinda's beautiful body, and I would just see red. I literally want to kill him. No; I wanted to burn the first couple of layers of skin off his entire body, beat him into a coma, and then kill him.

I'm not playing for shits and giggles. If the dead fucker had a real head, I would have had a bullet in it by now.

I just couldn't shake from my head the image of Melinda; as Stacy and I had found her just before; semi-catatonic (I don't think she really knew what was going on,) lolling in that little wicker school chair as Keith – with a visible hard on – held her upright by the hair; while that demented bitch Lisa began to touch Melinda where only _my_ hands had ever been allowed . . .

It was driving me out of my mind with anger; that image pounding behind my eyes as I landed punch after punch.

Yet still, I hadn't had enough. The urge to smash Keith's nose through his forehead wouldn't abate.

Psychotic, I know.

Therapeutic though.

"Please Nick," it wheezed, daring to speak again; somehow his balls must have dislodged themselves from his fat ass. "You have to believe me—"

"You ask me to believe you?!" I shouted down at the repulsive lump, _welcoming_ the fire simmering just behind my conscious. "To TRUST you? To treat you with human _compassion_?"

". . . well a little less bodily harm would be nice . . ." it grumbled.

I was yelling again before I even realised it. "You mean like YOU'RE inclined to treat people? Like MELINDA? Don't think I don't what you've done to her. What you _wanted_ to do to her . . . You've _hurt _her," I could taste bile in my mouth, and hear the revulsion in my voice.

Now, I don't reckon I really know how much humans are capable of when it comes to love, (God knows my father's not much of a role model,) but there was nothing that I wouldn't do for Melinda, just to have her safe and happy with _me_. There was just a deep roaring right in my chest; an urge to kick the ass of anyone who threaten to hurt her—

. . .Yeah, I'll go find my balls now.

Then Keith he did something strange, and it was enough to make me pause.

He smiled at me. A genuine, heartfelt smile. "You LOVE her, don't you?" His voice was practically shrill with excitement, and I blinked.

He sounded like a fucking lovesick Edward Cullen groupie. "OMG!" and shit.

"Don't you!?" He- and I wish there was another word for it - gushed.

I pulled myself together. "You fucking know it," I spat, "That's why you were so ready to fuck her and leave _me_ the findings. You were going to tear her apart with my knife –" my voice escalated to a out of control roar, "AND YOU WERE GOING TO ENJOY IT, YOU SADISTIC CUNT!"

The words reverberated around the foggy corridor, my voice yelling at him again and again and again.

I brought my face in close to his and hissed into Keith's surprised face. "I know all about you Keith Ringwald. I know about what you did to Hoyaki Shenio's little sister . . . and she's waiting for you Keith." I promised with a sneer. "She'll find you, no matter how well you thought you'd cleaned up after you."

And with that, I pulled back and smashed my elbow into the side of his face.

"OW!!" came a sqeal. "Nick! You dork!

_Dork? DORK? . . . _Pretty words for a fifty-plus fire-hazard . . .

". . . _Stacy?_" I asked, incredulous.

"Well DUH," she intoned, pissed by my tone. "That's only what I've been trying to tell you for the last ten arse kicking minutes!"

Is Aston Kutcher (the _king) _anywhere on the premises? Am I being punked . . .?

"I hate to be a dick about this," I said to the shrouded ghost of Melinda's friend, using Melinda's favourite term for myself in the process – and incredibly, that's her idea of a term of endearment. "But if you're going to mess around with aesthetic substitution, it's probably not the choicest of ideas to choose a fucking MASS RAPIST."

I really was just being a dick. She wouldn't have _chosen _this.

I just felt like a pussy for beating up a girl.

In my defence though, it doesn't LOOK like a girl. It looks like 100 something kilograms of rapist to both me and the casual bystander – not that the astral plane gets a lot of those.

But.

I offered a hand to the indignantly spluttering ghost and hauled her to her feet.

"Thanks." She grumbled. "And, btw, you suck Slater."

I winced, but accepted that. "Sorry," I muttered.

Then, three days too late, I began to get it. "Where's Keith!?" I demanded of his aesthetic form – which was a trip.

"Well I don't know!" She defended. "He didn't exactly say, 'hey can I borrow your body! I want to go get freaky with your mum the lesbian way!'"

I raised my eyebrows. Melinda's friend all right. I only understood about a quater of that.

"Grab my arm," I instructed. "Come on!" I griped when she hesitated.

"Well it's WEIRD, ok!? You just—"

"Fucking chicks," I complained, cutting her off. Why do they always have to _think _too much?

. . . Talk too much.

. . . Love me too little.

—Oh, did I say chicks? I apologise for the generalising . . .

FUCK THIS, you know?

Also, while you're (down) there, please disregard the pathetic nature of acting so heroically for a chick who wants nothing to do with the man in question.

I am.

Well, I was trying. But I couldn't shake the knowledge that this whole thing was pretty fucked up on my part: considering that Melinda had made it abundantly clear that she wanted nothing to do with me; so my big hero-to-the-rescue thing was all just show pony shit.

But there you go.

"Just do it, alright?" I snap. Stacy grumbled, but Keith's clammy hands closed around my arm and I resisted the urge to shove my fist down his throat. Only just.

Then I shifted us back.

**T h e D a u g h t e r O f**

They were gone.

"Melinda!" I shouted, my voice bouncing back to me in the empty concrete room. "MELINDA!"

"Oh, yeah, because THAT'S subtle," Stacy (who still looked like Keith,) hissed at me. "You might as well just truss yourself up and slit your own throat."

I blinked at her brashness.

"I watched Sweeny Todd the other day," she admitted, looking at her feet.

I almost snorted. Chicks. Watch a scary movie without squealing and then think they're hard. Melinda's the same. She thought she could take on a serial rapist and murderer and a psychotic maniac housewife, with nothing but the right frame of mind.

And look where that got us.

"Stacy," I said urgently, grabbing her arm in a grip that was probably too tight. "Can you find them?" I didn't wait for her assent before plunging on. "Send your thoughts to the astral plane." I knew I sounded like a hocus Gypsy, but she didn't question me. "Close your eyes and focus. Focus on seeing Melinda's energy . . . It's kind of a light orange colour . . . like seeing the sun filtered through a window . . . A warm and comfortable light . . ."

Stacy nodded.

"Now reach past it. Search for it. Stare at the energy and watch it narrow, pinpointing itself . . . "

"Wood . . ." She murmured, to herself.

Wood? I wondered. Like a forest? A cellar? A _coffin? _

Stacy's eyes flew open. "A box!"

Or that. "A box? That's fucking cardboard." This ghost is broken—

"No! A telephone box! She's by herself . . .?"

I didn't let myself feel relief. That didn't necessarily guarantee her wellbeing.

"_Where?_"

"Down the harbour. In that paint chipped telephone box about twenty meters from the dock. How the hell would she get there?"

I didn't know.

"Look, Stacy, I need you shift to my place – " I had to raise my voice over her spluttered objections. "LISTEN TO ME!! Right now, we know where at least half of Keith is; and I need it to stay that way. I can't get Melinda—"

"No freaking way Romeo--!"

"Stacy, PLEASE. Please listen to me. You'll be safe there. Tell my father everything; he's supposed to be working on something that might help us get rid of Keith ."

"Nick . . ."

My patience was just about shot. Melinda was God knows where, and God knows what was happening to her . . . "LISTEN TO ME! You can either stay and get yourself tortured and exorcised, or you can go to dad's and help find a fucking way out of this!"

She stared at my fixed expression, then nodded, and Keith's hulking frame shimmered into nothing.

Then, for once wishing I'd had the misfortune to be born a FULL shifter; (so that I could shift to places _other_ than the astral plane,) I headed out to where I'd hidden the car, and fishing my keys out of my left pocket, got in and began the drive to Valentine Harbour – about a 10k away from Valentine meatworks: which was where Lisa and Keith had brought Melinda to freeze and torture with the intent of killing her.

I guess it was ironic, but it just made me so mad I could not stop shaking.

Valentine harbour – a three-hour drive from Carmel – got its name for being, supposedly, the most romantic holiday destination in California. It would have appealed to Lisa's psychotic nature for me to find my girlfriend's body with visible signs of traumatic rape and torture in the Valentine Harbour meatworks.

Blood pumped as if ice through my veins and I pushed my foot down harder on the accelerator.

I might hate Melinda with one eighth of my heart; but I love her unreservedly with the rest. And there was nothing I wouldn't do to have her safe.

. . . A little corner of my mind whispered to me that this was all getting a little bit gay, and I was starting to think like a fag; but I don't care if Melinda loves me or not. I love _her_.

After what seemed like an indeterminable length of time I pulled up at the harbour, and got out to scour the place for the old wooden telephone box. Eventually I spotted it, its light blue paint flaked and fading.

I took off sprinting, not bothering to contemplate the likelihood of either Keith or Lisa being nearby. Which was remarkably dense.

I made it to the box without any of Lisa's bullets hollowing me out though, which I considered a real victory, and I tore the door of the slight structure open.

Melinda was huddled awkwardly in the far corner on the ground, and my knee's buckled as I reached out to her. I saw that there was blood smeared on her forehead. I reached out and gently touched her and she weakly turned her head to see me. She tried to say something, but it just came out as unintelligible garble.

"Shh, shh" I tired to sooth her as I scooped her up and with some effort, straightened up in the tiny booth – accidentally, I knocked her feet against the telephone receiver, but she didn't seem too worried about that, she was too busy looking blearily at me. "It's OK, you're OK now."

I said the word OK too many times for my statement to be plausible, but she didn't notice that either.

"Nick," she managed to gasp out, "What are you doing here?"

Stupidly, I tried a joke. "I hear this is a great place to pick up chicks." As soon as I said it; I wanted to kick myself. Time and place you fucking Skux!

"No, no!" Melinda heaved, kind of thumping her palms on my arms. "You have to leave, you have to get out before they come back—!"

I ignored her, and focused on trying to get her to stand upright – which was difficult, considering both the limited space a phone booth affords and Melinda's somewhat fragile state.

And all of a sudden she was crying.

She seemed to give up on trying to push me out the phone booth (attempts I'd almost not noticed her trying to execute, they were too feeble,) and instead collapsed her weight into me, forcing me into the wall – the one adjacent to the phone. She cried into my chest, and I could feel the cool mixture of nose snot and tears through my shirt.

Honestly? I peaked.

Melinda doesn't get like this. I've never once seen her want to be, or allow herself to be, held for long periods of time. She usually rejects all demonstrations of comfort because she thinks it implies inferiority on her part.

I did what I could think of – which, admittedly, wasn't much. I pushed her hair out of her face (because I know how she is about hair in her lipstick stuff – I guessed she'd be worse about hair in her tears,) and stroked her back and talked softly to her.

I was scared shitless about how out of it she was. She was almost like a hallucinatory religious fanatic – and we all know how fragile _their_ senses of reality are. She had no strength in her bones – my arms gripping her waist was all that was holding her up and she was utterly incoherent.

I gently cupped her face and made her look at me. I had to ask, even though I was scared of the answer and there was a good chance that she wouldn't know it anyway. "Melinda . . . did-did they make you take something . . .?"

"No . . . No!" She gasped, sounding delirious. "I'm OK, I'm just, I'm just . . ."

"What?" I insisted, honestly scared out of my mind.

"I was just – but you –" She stopped for a second, and when she continued, her words were perfectly formulated and clear, despite the tears still running down her face. "I love you. Nick, I love you so much – I was lying on the beach. I love you more than anything and I just can believe – after everything I did to you, everything I said you still came to save me. And you wont even leave me now."

I stared down at her, stunned.

"I love you," she repeated. "I'm shitting bricks because there's a good chance that the psycho's with their knives are on their way back here right now to kill us both . . . but still, I love you."

Silence swallowed us, before tentatively, she broke it.

"Awesome timing, right?" she asked sheepishly.

I didn't have the right words. I didn't have _any_ words.

I hoisted her feet off the ground and forced her mouth onto mine.

She loved me.

She loved me.

—Fucking ace . . .

**Please review!**

**It seriously would make my day. I'm in a bit of a funk at the moment, and as we all know; nothing is more cheering than an inbox full of reviews! Lol. **

**Love and kisses for always!**

**Mariah**.


	24. RANDOM CHAPTER Party in My Pants

**Authors Note: **

Hi! Oh my gosh, it's me! Mariah? Remember me? No?

… Sweet. I'm gunna keep talking anyway. It's how Iz roll.

So. I sorta gave up on fanfiction a while ago (see my profile for details), and the only time I come back to the site is when I see an "Edroar the Angry Lion" update (Tropical Sorbet) or a "The Tongue Set Free" update (georgeygirl).

As any of you following Edroar will now how nuttily delicious the story is, if not frequently updated. So it was as I was bemoaning this that I realised. Uh. Hullo. I haven't updated my story for, like, two years. Who am I to whinge!

Then I rationalised a) No one is reading my story in 2011, and b) I have MAAAAJOR writers block with it anyway. I've started chapter 24 maybe three times in three years, and it's still only two pages.

However I did write a chapter in 2008, and I was wondering how I would ever slot it in. It doesn't really fit in the plot, but it's so freaking hilarious (if I do say so myself! Funny drunks are great, and Melinda is no exception,) that there was no way I would delete it.

It's set somewhere after Nick and Melinda break up, but before the ghostly shit hits the fan.

I then thought about the lovely review I got from "I want to be Jesse's Girl" in 2010, and one from "eViL Isabelle" in 2011, asking for updates and saying generally lovely things.

So if there are two people who want to read The Daughter Of, then they shall!

So here it is. This is dedicated to "I want to be Jesse's Girl" and "eViL Isabelle". I hope you like it.

**2009 Authors Note: **

_I forgot that the drinking age in America is 21. In New Zealand it is eighteen, and I went with that. So with that in mind, Scott and the others were NOT breaking the law or anything in this chapter. _

_Melinda's case is a little different, but if you haven't figured out by now that Melinda could never in a million years be confused for a role model, then you're on something._

_And it's something that I hope that you will share._

_KIDDING, KIDDING._

_Drugs are bad. Underage drinking is bad. So is Sex. And Stay in school. "Denny Crane."_

_**Party In My Pants**_

'Why don't you,' a deep voice to the right of me suggested, 'just go and talk to him?'

I looked at Scott incredulously.

That would have to be the worst idea that I had ever heard. And that's counting all the shit that Stacy used to come up with. "_Yeah,__sure__we__should__play__tag__in__the__antique__shop.__That__'__s__a__great__idea__Stacy__.__.__.__ " _

'Scott. Come on. Does it _look_like he cares if I talk to him or not?'

We both turned our eyes back to the closely entwined couple nestled up in one of the elegant beige plush armchairs that littered the floor of the Slater's downstairs lounge. "Cuddle Couches" was, I believe, Chenaol's little term for them.

Of _course_, the couple was Nick and some blonde, big tits, small brain wannabe Playboy bunny.

I sighed quietly to myself.

Hey, hey, you know what, playboy bunny? I bet Hef has a wrinkly COCK! HAHAHAHAHA—

That's not funny, is it?

No.

Scott leaned closer to me and lowered his voice to say, 'Yeah, but that's just shit,' he spoke with the easy conviction of a spectator rather than a participant. 'If you ask me—'

Which was the furthest thought from my mind . . .

'—He's just as miserable as you are.'

And THAT, Scott, is why no one "asks you". Because your opinion? It's dumb. Your opinion is _dumb_.

I would have been better off writing in to Aunt Aggie.

'Really?' I replied, not entirely able to refrain from sarcasm, 'because he's doing a bang up job of pretending otherwise!'

Oh, would you look at that. Him and his blonde slut have begun to swap saliva.

Gather round, its fun for the whole family!

Oh, kiss my ass.

Scott ignored my sarcasm and nodded knowingly, observing the free entertainment Nick was only too happy to provide with an almost clinical detatchment. 'Yeah. But men are _different_ to chicks. Fact of life.'

Oh my God.

Hey, Dr Phil! Guess what mate, I found you a new consultant!

Yeah, okay, he once stole a monkey from a zoo and tried to keep it in his bedroom, and YES, okay, the best observation he can come up with is "Men are different to chicks" . . . But he'll do won't he?

'Life SUCKS,' I answered violently.

'Whoa,' Scott leaned back and surveyed me with raised eyebrows. 'Who—'

'Peed in my cornflakes, yeah yeah, I know.'

'Oh, fuck UP Melinda! It's just how some _guys_ grieve, Ok?'

I snorted. '_You_ fuck up. Guys aren't EVEN that different to chicks. They just SAY they are, and then use that as an excuse.'

'No, it's true,' Scott insisted. 'Dunno why . . . it just is.' He rapped his forehead twice with his fist and adapted what I assumed was his knowledgeable look, having never seen him adopt such an expression before. 'I know these things, Melinda. _I__'__m_ a guy.'

I smiled slightly, 'That's debatable,'

Other than to aim a punch in the vicinity of my shoulder, he ignored this, and took another drink of whatever it was he had in the can he was holding.

'Seriously though, Scott,' I continued. 'Guys might choose to call THAT—' I swung my arm in the direction of Nick and Slut, still sucking face, '"grieving" but I'm telling you right now that _that_ is NOT Grieving. And if YOU ever feel the need to go off and 'grieve' at any point in your relationship with Arabia, you should know that she'll either kill you herself, or pay someone to do it.'

Coz daddy would probably buy her a mob if she asked nicely.

'Don't be so dramatic,' Scott grumbled. 'There's no need.'

'There is . . .' my voice shrunk to a whisper, and my eyes slid off Scott's face to stare at the ground. 'Because she'd feel like her life had turned into one big surreal _joke_ . . . a joke with no punch line that just never ends . . . and everyone's laughing . . .'

Scott grabbed me firmly by the shoulder and forced me to face him. 'Melinda." He growled, "You're being a freak.'

'I am a freak, Scott.' I couldn't stop a whiney quality entering my voice. I turned looked at Scott with dull eyes. 'I'm a _freak_ who belongs in a shiny white room . . .'

He had to grin. 'Yeah, well, I can't argue with that . . . .' he teased. Then he slung an arm around me and squeezed me into him. 'Come on. Let's get you a drink.'

'Yes,' I replied sarcastically, 'because alcohol has done such a bang up job of fixing the rest of the world's problems.'

Hey, you! Ethiopian orphan! Cheer up you don't need _food_! Here, have a _drink_. Or better yet, HERE, have some COCAINE. Yeah, you like that . . .

Oh look! I think Nick's slut just DRIBBLED.

I took the brightly coloured bottle Scott was offering. 'Thanks.'

Was I worried about being underage? No. Scott's eighteen; he can be responsible for me; because I'm sick of being responsible; _sick_ of doing "The Right Thing".

"The Right Thing" has only ever hurt me.

Speaking of being responsible . . . Who the hell would sell alcohol to Scott?

The guy stole a monkey.

You would think the police would have that on record somewhere . . . or even just have scribbled it on a post-it note . . .?

'You're welcome—but just that one, and take your time. I need you to carry ME home tonight, no way will I be carrying you,' Scott joked, grinning at me. 'Unless you're good to crash here? Then . . .'

I looked at him—glared, really—and he shut up.

'So . . . That's a no?'

'No,' I confirmed.

It had been naive of me to assume that coming here, to the Slater's house, wouldn't have affected me. I should have had the foresight to anticipate the painful memories that awaited me here . . .

Although I couldn't really blame Nick for that. _I_broke up with him. _I__'__m_the heartless bitch here.

You could say I had it coming. That I deserved it.

I sighed and prised the lid off my bottle before lifting it to my lips and tasting the contents.

Perhaps if I'd bothered to read the label—or indeed the alcohol percentage—of whatever it was that I'd begun to drink, my night might have turned out a little differently.

. . . It didn't actually taste all that shit hot, I decided, pulling a face.

I'd never had alcohol before, and to be honest, I had been expecting something a little more fabulous, with so many regulars at Alcoholics Anonymous.

Must just be a great was to meet that special someone then, Alcoholics Anonymous . . .

We sat there for quite a while, just drinking in companionable silence, until Scott, interrupting my dwellings, said to me, "Hey, you wanna come over and see Rhys and them with me?'

I absentmindedly took another long swallow as I deliberated. 'Boys?' I asked, lowering the bottle and dragging a hand over my mouth.

Scott gave me a look that clearly conveyed his opinion on my mental health. "Freak" was the word that he had used earlier.

Boy; was he ever onto something there.

'Yes Melinda, "Boys". Sort of like c_hicks_, but with COCKS.'

'Yes. Cocks. And different grieving process'.' I reminded him, taking another large mouthful of the sharp liquid.

It didn't taste so bad once you got used to it.

He grinned. 'Now you're getting it. Come on.'

'Also,' I said, looking back over at Nick and Slut, 'guys are completely incapable of NOT acting like anal _hoe__bags_.'

Scott frowned at me. 'That didn't even make sense.'

I took Scott's offered hand and he pulled me up off the couch. Then I grabbed my now almost empty bottle and took another long swig as I slung my arm through his. Then I said, "Yeah, but I'm Melinda. Do I EVER make sense?'

'Not really, no.' Scott teased me as he lead me out onto the veranda, where his friends were. The friends with _cocks,_ who are easily confused between a SKANK and a GRIEF OUTLET.

'Hey,' Scott greeted the group of boys sprawled over the Slater's beautiful outdoor furniture. 'You guys know Melinda? Melinda, meet these guys.'

'Guys suck,' was my greeting.

'No,' one of Scott's mates joked immaturely, 'Chicks do."

I laughed 'You know what? You're so right,' I agreed, still giggling. Giggling at myself really. Honestly. I'm such a DUMB fuck. 'That's because girls are stupider than guys.' I winked at Scott. 'Fact of life.'

'I reckon I like Melinda drunk,' laughed a different guy. This one was Rhys, I think.

'Melinda is NOT _drunk,_' I denied proudly, saluting them with my drink. Then I happened to notice that my bottle was, in fact, empty. 'Oh. Fuck. Does anyone have another of these . . .?'

Rhys offered me the one he'd just uncapped.

'Thanks!'

You know, this stuff is actually kinda really good.

AND it's in pretty coloured bottles. Which is good, because who doesn't like pretty things?

NICK definitely likes pretty things. Such as pretty girls. Well, no actually, he prefers girls who are sluts . . . But you have to be pretty to be one of Nick's sluts, so it's all the same really.

Yes, for the privilege of having Nick Slaters tongue in your mouth, you have to be both PRETTY and a SLUT.

Or, like me, just really DUMB.

'Hi-fucking-fives to the people who make this shit,' was what I said aloud, beginning to drink. This one tasted different . . . It was all sweet. Fruity somehow.

Cool.

'Yeah,' agreed another of the guys, talking directly to one of his mates now. This ones name was . . . Sam? Maybe? I don't really know. 'I think I like Melinda drunk too. '

'I think Melinda should sit the fuck down,' Scott instructed me frowning slightly.

Funny, I've never seen Scott serious.

Or maybe I've just never taken him seriously.

Whatever.

Whichever.

. . . Penguins.

Hahahahahahaha!

'You can sit here Melinda,' Rhys grinned, indicating to his lap.

'Face down?' I enquired politely. God I'm funny.

They roared with laugher.

For the first time in forever, it felt so good to just not CARE . . . I was completely free to say—and do—whatever the fuck I wanted.

'Melinda . . .' Scott warned, as I slid down to sit in Rhy's lap.

I ignored him. 'Ooh, I love this song!'

AYO Technology by 50cent and Justin Timberlake.

Obviously someone in the lounge shared my feelings and turned up the volume, for what had previously been a rhythmic background noise was now intensified a hundredfold; sound surged out from the huge expensive speakers that were in the lounge, the beat pounding and thumping, the melody compulsive.

_**She**__**work**__**it**__girl,__she__work__the__pole  
She__break__it__down,__**she**__**take**__**it**__**low**__  
She__**fine**__**as**__**hell**__,__she__about__the__dough  
She__doing__her__thing__out__on__the__floor  
Her__money__money,__she__makin'__makin'  
__**Look**__at__the__way__she__shakin'__shakin'  
Make__**you**__**want**__**to**__**touch**__**it,**__make__**you**__**want**__**to**__**taste**__**it  
Have**__**you**__**lustin'**__**for**__**her**__,__go__**crazy**__face__it  
Now__don't__stop,__**get**__**it**__,__get__it  
The__way__she__shakin'__make__**you**__**want**__**to**__**hit**__**it**__  
Think__she__double__jointed__from__**the**__**way**__**she**__**splitted**__  
__**Got**__**you're**__**head**__**fucked**__**up**_from_**the**__**way**__**she**__**did**__**it  
**__She's__**so**__**much**__**more**__**than**__**you're**__**used**__**to**__  
She__know's__just__how__to__move__to__**seduce**__you  
__**She**__**gone**__**do**__**the**__**right**__**thing**__**and**__**touch**__**the**__**right**__**spot  
**__**Dance**__**in**__**you're**__**lap**__**till**__**you're**__**ready**__**to**__**pop**__**  
**_

I began to gently sway my body in time with the music, knowing full well that I was still sitting on Rhys. I just didn't care.

And I was in a good mood. Finally I was beginning to have fun again.

_**She****always****ready,**when you want it**she****want****it**  
Like a nympho, the info, I show you where to meet her  
**On** the late night, till daylight the club jumpin'  
If you want a good time,**she****gone****give****you****what****you****want**_

I reached an arm up behind me to put around Rhy's neck and _slowly_ rolled my body up. 

'Yeah . . .' Rhys drawled to his mates. 'She's gagging for it . . .'

I took another drink.

Then I leaned right back against Rhys and breathed into his ear, 'Maybe . . .'

Hello, it's not like it even _mattered_. They were just WORDS. Word don't mean anything, do they Nick? Words like "I love you".

Don't mean anything . . .

Rhys grinned moved his hand a little higher up my leg as he took another long drag of his cigarette and blew the smoke out in a thick cloud.

The smoke danced around me, the scent heavy and disorientating.

I'd never smoked either . . .

Rhys, seeing me watching, offered me the filter end of his smoke.

I didn't hesitate.

I leaned forwards and willingly placed the end of the cigarette between my lips and sucked a little as Rhys held it for me.

. . . Um . . . tastes NOTHING like it smells . . .

Ok . . . choking, CHOKING OVER HERE . . . throat hurts . . . OM MY FUCKING GAWD-

WAIT!.

ACT COOL MELINDA.

As Rhys watched intently, I ignored my sharp burning need to cough, and the itching in my nose and tilted my chin upwards, blowing the smoke up in the air.

Rhys was grinning as he took his smoke back and replaced it in his own mouth.

I then twisted my head so I could began to kiss Rhys's neck, but was interrupted when Scott reached out and put a heavy hand on my knee, no trace of humour in his eyes now. 'Melinda. Stop it, honestly.'

'Sure,' I agreed, still running with my new "words don't mean anything" freedom.

_Let me talk to ya_

Baby it's a **new** age, you're like my new **craze**  
**Let's****get****together** maybe we can **start****a****new** phase  
The **smokes** got the club all**hazy**, spotlights don't do you justice baby  
Why don't you **come****over****here**, you got me saying

Aayoo  
I'm **tired** of **USING** technology, **why****don't****you****sit****down****on****top****of****me?**

Aayoo  
I'm tired of **using** technology, **I****need****you****right****in****front****of****me**  
Ooh, **she****wants****it**, uh **uh**, she wants it  
Ooh, she wants it (soo), **I****got****to****give****it****to****her**  
Ooh, she wants it, **uh**uh, she wants it

Ooh, **she****wants****it** (soo), **I****got****to****give****it****to****her**

I shook my hair out and let Rhys grasp my hips and pull me around, so I was now facing him, while I kneeled over his lap.

Yeah, I was straddling him.

And what?

Instead of this seeing this as a reality check, it only served to encourage me. I placed my hands on his chest and began to rotate my hips in time with the music.

Rhy's wound his arms around my hips and held me tightly against his body.

_**Your****hips,**your thighs, they **got****me****hypnotized**, let me tell you  
Your hips,**your****thighs**, they got me hypnotized, let me tell you  
**Your** **hips**,your thighs, they got me hypnotized, let me tell you  
Your hips, **your****thighs**, they **got****me****hypnotized**, let me tell you_

Got a thing for that thing she got  
The way she make it tick, **the****way****she****make****it****POP**  
Make it rain for us so **she****don't****stop**  
I ain't got to move, I can **sit****and****watch**  
In**her****fantasy,**there's plain to see  
**Just****how****it****be,****on****me,****backstrokin',****sweat****soaking  
All****into****my****set****sheets**  
**When****she****ready****to****ride****,****I'm****ready****to****roll  
I'll****be****in****this****bitch** till the club close  
What should I do, **one****thing****on****all****fours**  
Now that that shit should be **against****the****law**  
From **side****to****side,****let****the****ride,****break****it****down**(**down****down)**  
You know I like, **when****you****hike** and you**throw****it****all****around**  
**Different** style, **different** move, **damn****I****like****the****way****you****move**  
Girl you got me thinking about, all **the****things****I****do****to****you  
Let's****get****it****poppin'****shorty****we****can****switch****positions  
From****the****couch****to****the****counters****in****my****kitchen**

'You're nice tonight Melinda,' Rhys murmured, as he moved his hands down from my hips and replaced them on my thighs, running them upwards and sliding them under the hem of my cut-off denim mini skirt. There he paused and began to drum his fingertips on the skin of my thighs.

Yeah ok, the guy had his hands up my skirt. Big fucking deal.

Who's holding that against me?

Certainly not Rhys.

I had paired the indigo wash denim cut-off skirt with bright yellow stilettos, very glossy and very high, and a clinging black long sleeve top, with a square neckline, and my hair loose and wavy.

YEAH, I looked hot. No WONDER Rhys was so determined to get into me. I really am really really hot.

REALLY hot.

Nick doesn't agree, but these guys here seem to, so fuck him.

_Let me talk to ya_

Baby it's a **new** age, you're like my new **craze  
**Let's get together maybe we can **start****a****new****phase**  
The smokes got the club all **hazy**, spotlights don't do you justice baby  
Why don't you **come****over****here**, you **got****me**saying

Aayoo  
I'm tired of **using** technology, **why****don't****you****sit****down****on****top****of****me?**  
Aayoo  
I'm **tired** of **using** technology, **I****need****you****right****in****front****of****me**

Ooh, **she****wants****it**, uh uh, **she****wants****it**  
Ooh, she wants it (soo), **I****got****to****give****it****to****her**  
Ooh, she wants it, **uh** uh, she wants it  
Ooh, **she****wants****it** (soo), I got to **give**it to her

Your hips, **your****thighs**, they got me hypnotized, let me tell you  
Your hips, **your****thighs**, they got me **hypnotized**, let me tell you  
**Your****hips**, your thighs, they got me hypnotized, let me tell you  
Your hips, **your****thighs**, they got me hypnotized, let me tell you

I was certainly as good looking as one of Nick's sluts and CLEARLY just as easy . . .

'Feel like coming for a walk with me Melinda?' Rhys asked.

Good euphemism there Rhysie. By walk you mean _sex__in__the__pool__shed_, right?

Nevertheless . . .

I smiled at him, grabbing my bottle and sculling the rest of it back in one go. 'Sure!'

_Lets go have me some sex!_

'NO!' Scott yelled at me. 'MELINDA! YOU—'

I didn't hear whatever it was that Scott thought I was, because that's when Chad appeared.

I grinned happily up at him. 'Chad!' I squealed, dislodging Rhy's hands and struggling to my feet—probably flashing everyone, but it wouldn't even be the first time tonight, so who gives a shit—so I could throw my arms around him.

He patted me slowly on the back, confused, no doubt.

'Come and sit wimme, Chad,' I instructed, throwing myself down into a deck chair and tugging him down on top of me.

'Melinda . . .?' he pulled himself off me and knelt down by my chair instead.

I pouted.

'Are you OK?'

'I am Jim FUCKING dandy, Chad. Just Jim fucking dandy.'

God hates liars, doesn't he?

Meh. I'm pretty sure that God already hates me. My life is what He does to amuse himself in his spare time.

Otherwise He wouldn't be PLAYING WITH ME like this.

Speaking of toys . . .

I smiled at Chad pleasantly. 'How about you?'

He smiled weakly back. 'Yeah. Me too. Jim fucking whatever it was.'

I love a man who will agree with whatever I say.

'Wait,' said one of the more intoxicated members of our party. 'Whose fucking Jim?'

'Me,' I beamed at him. 'I'll fuck anyone.'

That made him sit up a little straighter, I tell you.

'Ok,' said Scott firmly, 'Chad, give me a hand—'

I then found myself seized, Scott on one side, Chad on the other—it was a team effort, you understand—and escorted away from my new friends, most of which who had begun to look at me with a nasty sort of stare.

'HEY!' I protested.

How HUMILIATING.

Well, it could have been worse. At least I wasn't slung over anyone's shoulder. My skirt was a bit too short for that sort of carry on.

'CHAD. SCOTT. Let me go or I SWEAR I will get all karate kid on yo asses!'

I heard a sigh.

Then just as we got inside, I was released and guided down onto a sofa.

'There was no need,' I said snottily, sticking my hands down my bra to adjust my boobs in my top—Chad and Scot kinda stared a little, looking a little taken aback at my complete lack of inhibition, 'for that.' '

'Yeah. There was.' Scott answered. 'Stay there, I'm going to get you a drink.'

I perked up.

He saw this, and glared. 'COFFEE.'

Well excuse _me_ for being optimistic!

Scott left to go and get the Coffee and it was just myself and Chad.

Escape really wasn't an option. The guy's huge. And can run way faster than me. Quarterback or whatever. As if reading my thoughts, Chad smiled wryly and placed a restraining hand on my shoulder.

Ok, I thought, Ok, I can work with this . . . just got to adapt my strategy a little . . .

That's when it happened.

I felt someone looking at me.

You know how you do? Well, anyway.

I glanced up and found myself staring directly into the penetrating ice blue stare of Nick Slater. He stared openly at me, blatantly ignoring his slut, who had begun to kiss her way down his throat.

God. WHO DOES THAT?

What a slut THATgirl is. NO self respect.

I shivered, and found myself unable to look away from Nick's intense stare.

What surprised me was that he wasn't actually looking all that shit hot. He had dark shadows under his eyes and heavy creases between his eyebrows.

Although that could have been because he was looking at me.

Either that or his slut just sucked out one of his fillings.

Your guess is as good as mine. I deliberately broke eye contact and turned back to Chad. 'Was it just me,' I said to Chad brightly, 'Or does Nick look just a little bit homicidal?'

Chad sighed. 'Yes. But I reckon I would probably be the first choice for a brutal murdering. You however, might clock up a close second.'

That invoked my curiosity. 'Why am I only second?' I was kinda offended. All I did and only second place to show for it? NUH UH! 'What'd _you_ do?'

He gazed meaningfully down at his hand, still resting on my shoulder in reply.

'What? . . . huh? . . . that's . . . that's FUCKED UP.'

Then I remembered Nick's words to me on the beach.

"_Bet Chad found that a bit of a laugh. Me telling him to stay away from my girlfriend when he knew all along that it was HIS cock you'd been sucking to pass the time"_

Oh, Yeah, okay. It's all coming back to me now.

'Yeah . . . But shit happens. Anyway, don't tell Scott I did this—' Chad got up off the couch, '—and you wait here. I mean it.'

I shrugged, and did as was asked.

Not only was I beginning to feel like I wanted to vomit, but also things were getting a little hazy, and I thought that if I tried to move I might fall down.

It wasn't long before Chad came back, with one big bottle of clear liquid and two little glasses.

SCORE!

But damn. Those glasses were TINY. Where's the tumblers at, oi?

But who am I to turn down free alcohol?

Scott handed a glass to me and grinned at my thrilled expression as he sloshed some of the clear liquid into the glass. 'Here. Anyone who got anywhere near that cunt Nick Slater and survived deserves it.'

I blinked in surprise at the venom in his voice before I remembered that there wasn't exactly any love lost between these two.

In fact I distinctly remembered Nick saying:

_I was perfectly within my rights to threaten to bash the cunts face in . . ._

Shrugging it off, I said to Chad, 'I fucking love you.'

'Yeah,' Chad flexed a bicep. 'They all feel that way.'

I laughed loudly and lifted my small glass to my mouth, throwing it back.

—EWWWWW! WHAT THE FUCK WAS THIS? IT TASTED LIKE SHIT!

THAT WAS THE WORST THING I HAVE EVER TASTED IN MY LIFE! IT TASTED LIKE DISINFECTANT! OR—OR SHIT! OR _SOMETHING!_

And yet.

I grabbed the big bottle off Chad and refilled my little glass.

What the hell.

I drained the second glass, pulling a face.

But you know what? My horrible throw up feeling was now totally cured! AND the _FUCK-the-walls-are-moving_ feeling? CURED as well!

They should definitely put me on the whole Cancer case.

Because I fully have the answer.

CLEAR ALCOHOL THAT COMES IN THE BIG BOTTLES THAT YOU HAVE TO DRINK IN SMALL GLASSES!

I'm a fucking genius. Trophy please.

'Well, how could they not,' Chad continued, still waving his arm around.

God. The guy's STILL talking about his biceps? God. Am I keeping you from something there Chad? Would you like to make out with yourself now?

'Go on. Have a feel. You know you can't resist me.'

I rolled my eyes. Then I made a big show of leaning over and groping Chad's bicep. 'Oh Chad!' I exclaimed in a breathless voice, 'Oh wow! You're muscles are so amazingly HARD!'

He winked, and then said in a _really_ loud voice, 'WELL IF IT'S _HARD_ THAT YOU'RE AFTER MELINDA . . .' he wiggled his eyebrows suggestively and indicated to his crotch.

A loud slam made me jump, and I looked up to see Nick, having slammed his drink down on the table, get up and drag his slut out of the room, letting the door crash shut behind him.

"Whoa." I muttered. "What the fuck's up his ass?"

When I looked back to Chad I caught a triumphant expression on his face. When he caught me looking at him though, he quickly moulded his face into a grin, and ignored my curious gaze.

. . . What was that?

Ah well. Who cares? I thought, as I shrugged it off and continued to knock back more of the yucky tasting stuff.

NOT ME.

. . . caring, that is.

Not me CARING.

Wait, no, that's not right.

Ah well. In other news . . . _Big__bird__takes__it__up__the__ass__!_

I'd had another little glass of THE COOL STUFF (that is what I shall call it. THE COOL STUFF,) when Chad suggested that Scott would have found and figured out the coffee maker by now, so we'd better disappear.

He took my hand and led me out of the room and I was a little too completely and utterly off my face to notice that it was the same door through which Nick had left by earlier that we were now departing from.

And even if I HAD noticed, I probably still would not have been lucid enough to think anything of it.

'Ok MELINDA!' Chad yelled, 'Which way!'

He made it sound exciting, like a _game_, so I thought nothing of screaming back excitedly, 'The Pool! Let's go to the pool!'

I hadn't even considered Chad might NOT have been as fucked as I was at that time, and not, like me, yelling for fun, but because he wanted to be heard.

'OK!'

We ran out the door, past Rhys and buddies who attempted to delay me with a slurred 'Hey! Melinda! Beautiful! Where you going?'

'POOL!' I screamed back, beginning to get hysterical. 'AND YOU'RE ALL INVITED!'

'Wait—What?'

'PARTY IN MY PANTS!' I shrieked excitedly.

I've always wanted to say that!

We got to the Slater's pool gate and I fished out the key from where it was hidden and let us in. We ran around the rectangular perimeter of the crystal blue pool and collapsed, laughing, into the wooden poolside furniture.

Then I noticed something. Something IMPORTANT. 'Damn it. Where'd the GOOD STUFF go?'

'Here.' Chad pulled out the BRIILIANT BOTTLE (if I could marry a bottle, it would be THAT one. And we would live happily ever after. And have sssex. Because I LOVE THE GOOD BOTTLE STUFF! Woo!) and sloshed more GOOD STUFF into my little glass.

I swear, Chad was a MAGICIAN with producing the goods. Hehe. I wonder how he does it?

Meh. A magician never tells his secrets. And you should never a look a mouth horse in the gift.

Wait. That's not it.

Never look a gift mouth in the horse . . . You can't lead a gift to water . . .horse . . .

SOMETHING ALONG THOSE LINES.

There IS a HORSE.

'BRILLIANT!' I squealed (Why was I yelling, you ask? Dunno.) And tipped my head back to swallow more of the foul liquid.

'Hey Melinda?'

'Yey-ah?' I sung.

I watched as Chad got up of his chair and came over to sit beside me on mine.

I wriggled over to give him more room, but he leant over me and put his arm over me, resting it on the other side of the chair, restricting my movement with his body.

'What?' I repeated.

Hello . . .?

HELLO . . .?

. . . No one home.

Chuck a brick through the window then? Ok. Will do.

Wait . . .

What?

Chad didn't answer me, just began to slowly lean towards me, keeping his eyes on mine.

I knew what he had in mind.

And I would like to blame my next actions on the excessive amounts of alcohol I had consumed that evening.

'Oh FUKING HELL,' I said, exasperated at how SLOWLY he was moving. So I grabbed him by the back of the neck and pulled his mouth to mine.

Felt weird.

Not BAD, but . . . weird.

I'd just gotten so used to a very different tongue in my mouth.

. . . I'm sorry, was that crude?

. . . PENIS!

I'd also gotten used to different pair of—WEIRD—hands holding my face . . . and things got WEIRDER still as Chad slid his hands slid down my neck and over my shoulders and—and—

OUCH!

Ease up would you? They're not made of fucking PLAY-DOUGH.

Suddenly, Chad's weight went flying off me, and my eyes flew open as I heard an unmistakable voice—the voice that meant more to me than my entire handbag collection.

. . . However not more than my shoe collection. Let's keep things realistic.

Before I had a chance to say anything, Nick had drawn back his arm and punched Chad full in the face.

Chad went spinning into the pool.

Hows THAT for dramatic effect?

I clapped my hands. 'Haha. Cool. You're in the pool!' Then I started giggling. Because it RHYMED. DUH.

'_You_can shut the fuck up,' Nick growled in my direction.

'Who pissed in your cornflakes?' I challenged. 'And where's your SLUT?"

This was the first I'd seen Nick without HER oozing off him all night.

Bet she was off fucking his brother.

Wait. Nick doesn't have a brother.

Ok, his STEP-MUM then.

Although, I don't really know how that WORKS. Lesbian sex. I mean, NEITHER PARTY HAS A PENIS! So what gives?

'Who are you calling a slut?' Nick challenged, 'LOOK AT YOU!'

'There is no need to take that tone with me,' I said loftily. Although the effect might have been ruined by the fact that before I'd even finished speaking, I had slid off the pool chair and onto the cold concrete.

Fuck up. I'm not drunk.

YOU'RE drunk.

And so is your MUM.

It was then that Chad managed to resurface from his underwater sojourn. He pulled himself out of the pool, and stood there, dripping wet. His face was contorted with anger, yet he forced his voice to sound cheery.

. . . Can I just say that THAT'S fucked up?

Yeah I said it.

Oh yeah. I WENT THERE.

Booyah.

'Come on Nick, mate,' Chad drawled. 'What did I do to deserve that?'

Hey! My throw up feeling is back! WHADDA YA KNOW?

I then decided that now would be a good time to sleep. So I rolled over onto my stomach and closed my eyes. Yeah. Still on the wet concrete.

Why?

You want to know WHY? HOW DARE YOU—

Dunno, really. It just s_eemed_ like a _great_ idea. But don't they always?

'Leave her alone.' Nick barked. I assumed he was referring to me. 'She doesn't know what she's doing. She's completely wasted.'

HEY MAN.

I'm not a waste. YOU'RE a WASTE.

I'm a . . . Lace.

Well . . . My knickers are lacy. Wanna see?

I'll show you yours if you show me—

'Whatever.' I mumbled into the ground. 'Lesbian sex is complicated.'

That certainly put a slight damper on the tough guy talk, I tell you.

'Melinda,' Nick came over to my side and crouched down beside me, 'Come with me, we have to get you sober—'

'Fuck off bitch boy, I'm sleeping.'

'Melinda, come on,' then his arms were around me and he was helping me to my feet. 'I think we'd better get you home.'

I slumped, and he supported me.

'Hey Nick,' called Chad, strolling leisurely over towards us. 'Let her go man. She's fine.'

'Yeeaaaah. I'm FINE . . .' I mumbled. Then I licked my finger and stuck it on my ass, making a 'SSSSSSSS' noise.

. . . Don't pretend you've never done that before.

'Chad,' Nick said pleasantly, 'go home and suck your mum's cock.'

God Nick comes out with some beauties sometimes, doesn't he?

Chad was grinning widely. 'What's all this Nicky?' I winced on Nick's behalf. 'She's not your problem anymore, bro. She DUMPED your sad ass, so I heard.'

I'm a problem?

Well I RESENT THAT.

Looking back, I realise that this would have been the point where I MIGHT have realised that Chad had planned all of this just to piss Nick off.

However, I was too busy trying to fall asleep while STANDING UP to bother with being at all that perceptive.

Did you know that trying to fall asleep while standing up is actually A BIT TRICKY? Especially when all the while you would like nothing better than just to throw up and then coma out.

Nick, obviously deciding that IGNORING Chad was the strategy to go with, turned his back on him and began guiding me away from the pool.

'Why are you doing this, Nick?' Chad taunted. 'Huh? Why do you give a fuck that she's pissed off her damn face—'

'I RESENT THAT!' I screamed again, my words indistinct. "_No__one__will__be__pisssing__on__my__face!__"_

'—are you trying to play the nice guy, so she'll take you back? That's a bit desperate ain't it?'

Nick said nothing, just kept helping me towards the gate.

'Obviously you just weren't good enough for her, aye? You weren't _satisfying_enough . . . did you know that she was all set to fuck that pot head Rhys earlier tonight? Yeah. And you saw for yourself that she don't wanna keep her hands outta MY pants—'

Abruptly Nick let go of me, and I stumbled a bit, before slumping over the pool gate.

'C'mon then mate,' Chad sneered, as Nick advanced towards him. 'Lets see it then.'

And see it he did.

Nick didn't waste any time. He strode up to Chad and twisted away from the fist Chad swung in his immediate direction without slowing down. He just reached out and clutched fistfuls of his shirt and shoved him sideways into the wooden pool table.

This made a very nice _crunch_ sound.

Was this fight all about _me_? Ha. _Cool_. Fight over _me_. How awesome.

And boy, Nick was BRINGING IT.

Actually . . . he was bringing it so much . . . that it wasn't even all that exciting.

'Chad, man! You're getting your ass kicked!' I called out, as Nick grabbed Chad again and slammed him into the pool fence, placing his forearm over Chad's sternum.

He was applying a fair bit of pressure to this as well, if Chad's gasping was anything to go by.

Wow.

This is pretty dumb.

I really thought that a fight like this would be more exciting.

More "EN GUARDE!" kinda, you know? Testosterone-y males, settling their differences **WWW** stye . . .

But nah.

It was just Chad getting the shit beaten out of him.

Way boring.

How embarrassing for Chad. Being a big football star and all.

To be fair, he didn't really have a chance though. Nick was PEEVED. He only holds his jaw like that when he's REALLY pissed off.

. . . Ooh. I still want to throw up.

Ok. Melinda. Don't throw up. Throwing up is YUCKY, don't you DARE. Focus on something else. Oh, look! Fight! Ooh! Cool!

'Ow,' I winced as I watched Chad bring his leg up and aim to severly damage Nick's guy parts—Nick avoided this the way all guys do: he did that weird hunched over, knees together hands over pose—and Chad stretched his arm up and hit Nick square in the face. 'Shame Nick. You're going to have a black eye tomorrow.'

I was standing there, swinging over the gate and offering commentary when we were interrupted by an angry voice.

'OI! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU FUCKWADS' DOING?'

Shit! It's Scott! Hide Melinda, HIDE!

I scrambled to my feet and tried to run.

The outcome of this action was enough to convince me that I might have been just that LITTLE bit tipsy . . .

Problem was balance. It caught up to me in the end, as I knew it would.

You see, I really wasn't capable of standing without Nick or the gate.

Preferably both.

I stumbled instantly and made it JUST through the pool gate before my balance got a little suss. I lurched forward, stumbling as my shoes slid on the wet grass . . .

To cut a long story short, I ended up head down ass up in the garden.

Go team.

Yeah. Ok. I'm a DANCER, my balance is usually PERFCT . . . So I must have been fucking tanked.

SHH! _Don__'__t__tell__daddy!_

I groaned and pulled myself into a sitting position. 'Mother fucking plants!' I growled at them. Scott came over and helped me to my feet. 'Why you have to be there, huh? Huh plants? WHY? I don't ask for much in life now, do I? ALL I ASK IS THAT NO-ONE PUT VEGETATION IN DUMB PLACES!' I yelled at no one in particular.

'Dumb places?' Scott asked, his voice halfway between disapproval and humour. "Like _gardens_?'

'Yeah,' I mumbled, rubbing my thigh. 'Dumb place for plants number ONE.'

'Melinda?' I looked up to see Nick over Scott's shoulder.

'Is Chad dead now?' I asked.

'No.' Nick answered, laughing.

What? I was totally serious.

Then Nick reached out to take me from Scott like it was the most natural thing in the world. I cringed away from his hands.

He stared at me.

'You right Chad?' Scott yelled in the direction of the pool.

'Fuck off Jenson,' came the reply.

'Yeah, he's good,' muttered Scott. Then turned and said to Nick, 'man, what is WRONG with you?'

Nick didn't answer that. 'Come on, let's get her up to the house. Chenaol can play nurse.'

I assumed 'her' was me.

'Yay yay,' I burbled, 'I _miss_Chenaol. She's funny. She's funny.'

'You said that.'

'No . . .'

Then there was silence as they led me up to the house. I waited until we were a good halfway up the lawn and the house was in clear sight before I broke it. 'I want to sleep,' I said. Then I noticed something else. 'Hey,' I said quietly to Nick. 'You're bleeding.'

'Am I?' he swiped his hand over his nose and shrugged.

'Eww.' I said helpfully. And then, God knows how I managed it, but I actually said something moderately intelligent. 'Are you alright Nick?'

'Never better. I've wanted to smash that fuckers head in for a long time.' He grinned at me.

Then I remembered something. Something that made me mad. "So. Nick. Where'd you park the slut?"

Coz she's like a _bike_! ANYONE can have a ride! And when you're not riding a bike you have to PARK IT!

See? SEEE? See the great metaphor-y thing I have going on there?

I can still be FUNNY when I'm pissed!

YAAAAAAAAAAY MELINDA!

'Corinna?' Nick asked. I assumed that was the bike's name.

What, you think I CARE she has a name? 'SLUT.' I corrected. 'And you know what pisses me off?' I said angrily, and then didn't wait for an answer. 'YOU. You, Nicholas Slater, PISS ME OFF.'

He was still grinning. 'Why is that Melinda?'

"Oh, _Why__is__that__Melinda?__"_ I mocked. "I'LL TELL YOU WHY IS THAT MELINDA! Because you're a real CUNT!'

Then I tripped over on an uneven part of the lawn and hit the well-manicured damp lawn with my face. God I'm cool.

Nick, the aforementioned cunt put his arms around me and lifted me up, placing me back on my feet, but keeping a tight arm around my waist so I wouldn't fall again.

. . . huh. He is SUCH a cunt.

Scott shook his head, laughing.

"Melinda," Nick whispered in my ear as the weird dizzy feeling reclaimed me. "You should just stop talking."

GOOD IDEAD NICKY-POO.

Your very BEST idea, in fact.

So I did. I just shut up.

Somehow, Nick and Scott managed to get me into the house and to a room and bed and all that.

Well, at least I assume they did. Because I woke up there.

I think.

-Oh wait, no yeah. I did. With a head that felt like Dino from the Flinstones had sat on it. But that's another story.

**Authors****Note: **_Thanks for reading. You're very beautiful people, and I wish you all the best. All my love and kisses! Mariah._


	25. Esme Brett

Hi friends.

Esme here.

Y'all know me as Mariah, or Esmerelda01.

I am the author of this here fic:

The Daughter Of.

I can't commit to finishing this story,

because I have been kidnapped

NOT for real-sies

for pretend-sies, by an idea.

The idea is Esme Brett

(moi)

Writes a Romance Novel.

And I'm doing it,

I am!

You can check out the first few chaps

and some other stuff

on my blog

or my twitter

links are on my profile.

Until then mi amores

take care and be well,

love and kisses always,

your Mariah.


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